Clemmie (14 page)

He drove home. The phone was ringing when he walked in. He hurried to it.

“Craig? Craig this is Irene Jardine. Can you hear sounds of revelry in the background? I don’t see how you could miss them. One of Al’s grateful clients came through today with a huge package of the most monstrous steaks you ever saw. There’s absolutely
no
room in the freezer, so this is turning into a pickup party. I do hope you can come.”

“I’d like to, Irene, very much.”

“You better hurry, or you’ll be too many drinks behind. I’m dying to see you. We’re out in the yard mostly, and it’s mighty informal around here.”

He showered and dressed hastily in sports shirt and slacks. The Jardines were among the early settlers in the five-year-old River Wood section, and had appropriated one of the best sites, a hilltop site. He and Maura had been entertained there often, with a kind of hospitality that could not be returned on Federal Street. There was an acre of backyard with a wading pool for the kids, a wide concrete terrace, an outdoor grill. When he realized no one would hear the front-door chime, he went in and through
the house. There was the usual confidential group in the kitchen, Joe and Jeanie Tribbler, Chet Burney and a young couple he did not know. They were introduced as Dave and Floss Westerling, house guests of Steve and Lollie Chews, who lived next door. Chet Burney built him a dark hairy drink from the kitchen supply, and Craig wandered out to find his host and hostess.

He found that the Westerlings were the only strangers. He knew all the others. They were all part of the same social group as he and Maura, all but Bill Chernek who, he guessed, had been invited because Ruthie was out of town. He stiffened when he saw Bill, but Bill saluted him with his glass, friendly enough. He spoke to Steve and Lollie Chews, to Vince and Bobby Hellgren, to Anita Osborne and Ralph Bench. They asked him about Maura, about the latest word. There was the expected banter about the discolored bruise on his forehead. He sensed that the party was at the three-drink level, just a shade overly gay, but not yet frantic.

It was, as Irene had explained, informal. The sun was still high enough to slant into the yard. Petite Jeanie Tribbler and gross Lollie Chews both wore sunsuits. Jeanie looked as charming as Lollie looked grotesque. The house guest, Floss Westerling, wore a sort of cabana costume of cape and swimsuit. The only overdressed one was, as might have been expected, Anita Osborne. She wore a cocktail dress and had seen her hairdresser that same day. When Craig spoke to her he noted that she was slightly ahead of the others in the number of drinks consumed, and he made a mental note to give her a wide berth.

Everyone had thought that Tom and Anita Osborne, despite their childlessness, had a good marriage. They seemed warmly happy with each other. It had shocked the group when, nearly two years ago, Anita had gone to Reno for her divorce and got it on the grounds of mental cruelty. Tom married a girl of twenty-five, fifteen years younger than he was, the day after the decree became final. And shortly thereafter, he had wangled a transfer to another city, leaving Anita with the house and moderate alimony. Anita had not properly gauged the change in her social status, not at first. She had been a slender, graceful woman of thirty-six with prematurely white hair, a golfclub
tan, a knack of dressing well. She had apparently believed that her social life would go on as before and, sooner or later, she would find another man and remarry.

But ever since the divorce, there had been a gradual disintegration of Anita. The invitations were far less frequent. Friends made efforts to introduce her to eligible men, but the men were always less than suitable.

She began to become slightly frantic. She had the white hair dyed blonde. Though she had paid a great deal for the change, and though it had been carefully done, it served only to harden the lines of her face and made her look suddenly and shockingly older. She began to drink too heavily. When she drank her conversations became larded with sexual innuendoes. She greeted friends with such extreme cries of surprise and affection that she became almost hysterical. She began to buy clothes more suitable for a junior miss. The poised and gracious wife of Tom Osborne no longer existed. This woman was a menace, a lonely and frantic human being who, though she was trying dreadfully hard, seemed to expend all her efforts in the wrong directions. Everyone knew she was moving constantly closer to a breakdown, and no one seemed to know what to do about it. Craig had an uncomfortable memory of a party in May when she had clung to him and wept. He wanted no recurrence this evening. Al and Irene were two of the old friends still loyal enough to invite her. Yet Al and Irene did not ask her when there were other guests who might not understand.

Lately well-meaning friends had been asking her and Ralph Bench to the same parties. He was a newcomer in Stoddard, an insurance company executive. He was a widower with grown children. Though he looked distinguished and alert, his conversation was composed entirely of the dullest sort of platitudes, and of personal experiences he told over and over. He seemed to like Anita, however, and chuckled fondly at her overdrinking and her hysterical posturings.

Al Jardine drew Craig over to one side. “No grief for you the night our Bill got it?”

“None. I was drunk, but I stayed out of trouble. Bill’s got a rough touch with a Martini. How will he come out?”

“Okay. The fix is in.”

“How do you mean?”

“I hesitate to explain it to you, my idealistic friend. We’ve had too many arguments about this sort of thing, with you on the side of truth and beauty. But I’ll explain. Both cops have to come up with the same story. One of them is named Cooper. He’s a real hardnose cop. The other is a kid, still on probation. His name is Fenelli. And he got on the cops because his uncle is a ward worker down in the ninth ward and his uncle went to Manny Brancci whose name you have heard and who delivers the vote from the eighth, ninth and tenth wards, and asked Manny to back the kid for an appointment—which Manny did, because the way you hold wards together is by doing favors. So when I had my facts, I went to Hal Reiter, the people’s choice, who gave Manny the word, who gave the uncle the word, who gave the kid cop the word. Now when it comes up, this kid, who was absolutely positive, will be very dubious about who swung first. Reasonable doubt. No reprimand for anybody. But a quiet little disturbing the peace fine for our Bill. Such are the procedures of justice in fair Stoddard. Like it?”

“Do I have to?”

“You want the book thrown at Bill. Public disgrace, and a can tied on him by Quality Metals because he’s a lousy purchasing agent.”

“No. I don’t want that.”

“You have told me the same laws should apply to all. So some River Street bum takes a swing at a cop. He gets six long months. I think you’re a little mixed up. The law applies differently to each social strata, Craig. That’s the way it works here, and that’s the way it works in any city in the land. Except maybe more so here. Here I bet that if George LaBarr Bennet ran down an old lady pushing a baby carriage at high noon at the corner of DeWitt Boulevard and Long Bridge Avenue, sodden drunk and with a pocket full of reefers, give me some grease for the right bearing surfaces and I could get him off with a parking ticket.”

“Why mention him?”

“What are you startled about? I just pulled his name out of a hat. He’s one of the untouchables. We’ve got several of them in the area. You don’t stomp on a man who bought immunity by putting a half million into the hospital fund. Understand, Craig. I’m not proud. I was going
to hold juries in the palm of my hand. I was going to have one hell of a courtroom manner. But I’m just a very capable and very well paid Mr. Fixit. And they all know, from judge to pimp, from senator to whore, that when I give my word it’s as good as any legal contract that can be drawn up. But it’s still a dirty business, and I rant at you like this because sometimes I get a little fed with it and I have to go around defending myself to the bleeding hearts. Let’s drop it. You need a drink. You’re behind in the bar batting average.”

He had a drink and he talked with Irene and Jeanie Tribbler for a while, and then had another drink and was talking to pretty little Jeanie and Floss Westerling, the statuesque young bathing-suited one, when Bill Chernek moved into the group.

“Ole Fitz,” he said. “Cuts himself out the two best looking dolls at the clambake. This guy is cozy. You want to watch him.”

“Is that a sort of warning, Mr. Chernek?” young Mrs. Westerling said.

“Sort of! I’m giving you the straight facts.”

“Lay off, Bill,” Craig said.

“No, I mean it. You lovelies don’t know what a chance you’re taking. This ole Fitz is surely on the prowl these days. Wife away for the whole dang summer.”

Jeanie smiled up at Craig and said, “You’re a lamb. Bill is trying to give you a dangerous reputation. Bill, I’ve known Craig long enough to know that it’ll take more than press agenting.”

Bill leaned closer, put a thick finger to his lips and said, “Shush, honey. Now I make with the facts.”

Craig realized Bill was drunk in a way not normal to him, a sly drunkenness. When Bill glanced at Craig his smile was broad, but his eyes had a small pinched look.

“Here’s the facts, you lovelies. You underestimate ole Craig. You won’t ever find ole Craig home. He’s got a shack job all lined up. This boy is real sneaky. Look at him. Manly and honest and stuff. But I got five bucks says he goes right from here to her.”

“That’s not particularly funny, Bill,” Jeanie said.

“Isn’t meant to be, sugar. I’m just ready with the facts. You gals watch out.”

He turned and lumbered away, heavy elbow nudging
Craig painfully in the ribs. Jeanie said to Floss Westerling, “Forgive the local types, Floss.”

“We’ve got ’em where I come from. Think nothing. Are you really a lady-cruncher, Craig?” she asked looking at him guilelessly.

“I read a book.”

“Oh, of course. One of those do-it-yourself texts.”

After her husband came and got Floss, Jeanie said, “Craig, Bill acted pretty nasty. Is he sore at you?”

“I guess so. It’s a long dull story, though. Come on and I’ll buy you a drink and promise not to inflict the story on you.”

As they walked across to the outdoor bar, Jeanie said, “You know, Craig, you’ve never made any hint of a pass at me.”

“I’ve managed to restrain myself, Jeanie.”

“Thank God. Kitchen kissings and hallway goosings and little trips out to the car or into the brush sicken me. Hey, not so heavy on the Scotch, Craig. Maura and I have talked about this pass business. We both feel the same way. And we both congratulate each other on having husbands who aren’t—sleazy.” She patted his arm and smiled at him. “Now I’m going off and be constructive and tell Al to start to think about the steaks.”

He watched her walk away. The last of the slow dusk was gone and Al had turned on all his spots and floods. Al was fond of lighting. There was a theatrical number of them. Al, with no encouragement at all, would tell you his theories about the relationship between good lighting and human emotions.

Craig stood with stiff drink in hand, in a patch of shadow, and looked at all the people he knew so well, all of them predictable. Bench had the Hellgrens blocked in a hedge corner. Bill, Joe and Chet stood in a tight group, making giant shadows against distant trees as they told jokes. Al was poking his bed of coals, and it made a pink light on his face, intent under the high chef’s hat. Steve Chews was trying to help him, with customary ineptness. Lollie Chews, talking to Irene Jardine, bent over to slap a mosquito on her ankle and Craig saw the spotlight on her gargantuan buttocks that strained at the lime sunsuit she wore, staggering monuments to self-indulgence. Jeanie Tribbler was sitting on a redwood table, swinging her little
legs that were so perfect that somehow they were impersonal, beyond desire. Alice Burney leaned against the table, talking to Jeanie, a spotlight touching the amber in her glass. Beyond them he could see lightning on the western horizon, silent car lights crossing the bridges, and a yellow-orange neon glow over the city.

This was the mixture as before. Craig stood and rubbed the coolness of his glass against the side of his face, and felt he looked at them with an equal coolness, with a speculation. He remembered all the other times and all the other places. The group changed, but it remained the same. There was economic attrition, and marital attrition, and bad hearts and malignancies, but new ones filled the vacant places. Only the names were changed, but the parts were played in the same old way.

He stood there as though he were an uninvited neighbor watching them from beyond a hedge. The Westerlings, though they were strangers, fit into a very familiar pattern. She had a look of restlessness and boldness and discontent, and her young husband had all the uncomplicated eagerness of a setter pup. Like the Carrans, who weren’t here tonight.

Craig shook off his feeling of detachment and, both physically and emotionally, rejoined the group. He had another husky drink and twenty minutes of idle and interrupted conversation before the steaks were served and they ate. Bill Chernek had to be wheedled into eating. There was steak and hot rolls and a huge bowl of chilled salad and strong coffee.

Craig sat on the edge of the raised terrace to eat. Floss Westerling sat with him, at his right. He finished before she did and he sat there smoking a cigarette, aware that she was glancing at him from time to time.

“You work up a pretty heavy silence there, my friend,” she said at last.

“Sorry, Mrs. Westerling. Floss, isn’t it? How do you like it here?”

He had taken his finger out of the dike. Her talk washed over him. She had a sprightly way of expressing herself, but it only partially masked the whine of her discontent. They had a month vacation, and it was half gone. They had three small children—six months, nineteen
months, and not quite three. She had put her foot down when Dave had wanted to bring them along. What kind of a vacation would that be? Dave’s mother took the kids, but they had to pay for a full-time practical nurse to help her, and a good one, so it had taken the money for the nurse instead of the vacation they had planned.