Contrary Pleasure (18 page)

“Will you do me the favor of getting out of this office right now before
I lose my mind completely?”

Quinn left without looking back, leaving the door standing open. Ben sat
and felt bitterly ashamed of himself. Regardless of Quinn’s ineffectuality, one
human being had no God-given right to do that to another human being. He had,
in effect, helped Quinn create his own myth. If he had torn it down in the
beginning, when the myth was weak… But long ago he had realized that Quinn
Delevan had a limited intelligence, a complete lack of any competitive drive.
He was mild and decorative and a bit of a bore. Born into a different social
stratum, Quinn would probably have been one of those men who, bolstered by a
working wife, drift through many jobs—floorwalker, salesclerk, doorman, usher,
hearse driver—reasonably contented, mild, half-alive.

Ben knew that out of his own selfish fear had come the hope that he could
wire a verbal explosive to the seat of Quinn’s pants and shock him into
awareness, into independence. It had been done, and he would have given a great
deal to undo it. For a little time he had hoped he could force apart the jaws
of this special trap. The hope had come from Griffin. But the springs of the
trap were too strong. He thought of Griffin and of how contemptuous Griffin
would be were he to know this special aspect of family responsibility.

He knew he had handled it very poorly. Had administered a shocking wound.
Yet, he thought, perhaps you cannot inflict a deep and lasting wound when the
injured party lacks depth. The meaningless people of this world seem to have a
peculiar knack of self-delusion. Perhaps that is the measure of their
meaninglessness. Already the ugly interview would be suffering a subtle
distortion in Quinn’s mind. All the protective circuits and devices would be
operating. By evening Quinn would remember words that were not said, and would
have forgotten words that had been said.
Delehay’s
reaction would be construed as being the result of jealousy. Big brother Ben
had been off on one of his usual tangents, trying to frighten the hired help.
It would all be twisted and altered and changed, so that after a few days the
rents in the toga would have mended themselves, and Quinn would pull it
carefully around himself once more and stand proudly and smugly, made warm and
safe by the fiction he constantly wrote for himself, the stories wherein he was
always hero.

You could not smash the foolish ones, because the sledge bounced off
their rubbery texture. It is awareness and sensitivity that fragment so easily.
And he began, without warning, to think of his son. And as the sickness began,
he turned his thoughts away. He had not yet been able to think it through. It
hurt too badly. It involved too many losses, of hope and dreams and pride. Love
was still there, stubborn and indestructible, but the good reasons for it were
gone. And he could not yet permit himself to think of it.

Back in his own office, Quinn sat at his desk. The glossy trade journal
was still open in front of him, open to the page he had been looking at when
Ben had summoned him so abruptly. He looked sightlessly down at the color cut
of the huge loom, a thing of Martian strangeness and endless complication, a
device with an electronic brain which received its instructions from a plastic
tape, a chirping, chuckling monster that sat and fed itself and excreted
intricate patterns, full of stainless dreams of a day when the last man would
leave the last mill and close the door.

Quinn sat alone and tried to remember when and how it had happened. It
hadn’t happened in Ben’s office. It had happened a long time ago. He remembered
the first day, the strangeness of it. A Ben who was sixteen years younger
taking him around that day.
This is my brother. He’s coming in with us. This
is my brother. He’s coming in with us.
Busy faces and quick grins and the
handshakings
.

Start at the bottom. Strange smells and strange methods and confusion and
new words to learn. He had wanted to learn. They weren’t natural with you—not
the way they were with each other. You were a Delevan. And somehow it wasn’t
like a job. It was more like playing a part. And Ben kept shifting him around
so much. It was confusing. There were a lot of things you never did get to
understand the way you should. You were supposed to pick it all up quickly
because you were a Delevan. You made mistakes and they said it was okay.

There must be one specific moment when it happened. One day back there
when the decision was made. So that from then on you drifted along with it,
stayed out of trouble, gave up any sincere idea of contributing anything. And
you learned to nod in the right way when they talked over your head. And you
learned all the defensive devices.
Yes, you may be right. We’ll give that
some consideration. I’ll check with my brother on that. It could stand looking
into. It would have to be a policy decision, of course.

And once those defensive devices were perfected there was little point in
trying to learn more. Stockton Knitting had been going on a long time. The
technical people had been trained for their jobs. Supervisory personnel made
the minor decisions. My God, it wouldn’t collapse if you didn’t happen to know
every little facet of the business. Ben kept things under control. He even
liked
it. The thing was to look wise in every job Ben gave you and wait patiently for
the office of your own and the desk of your own.

But something had changed him into precisely what Ben had called him.
Maybe it was a change so gradual he hadn’t noticed it.

Or maybe it had happened on a day long ago, a day during the time he had
been assigned to bookkeeping. Sitting, drowsing over the intricacies of the
accounts receivable, computing the discounts on the old manual machine with its
worn keys, matching the discounts against the amounts taken by the customer
firms. There had been a delay in getting some kind of new form from the
printer. It was supposed to be ready, but for some forgotten reason, the
printer couldn’t deliver. Burney, long years dead now, had asked him to go pick
up the forms. He had left the office on a clear, cool October day and driven
over into the heart of the city, parked on a back street. The yellow Ford,
wasn’t it? The job press was a noisy place, presses thumping and clanking,
paper whispering off into neat piles. The old man in the green eyeshade had
shouted over the noise, “It’s half run off, son. You need them in a hurry, you
take a stack back with you. That’ll hold you and we can deliver the balance
tomorrow.”

And he had stood there thinking of the clear beauty of the day, of the dusty
drowsiness of the bookkeeping section, of the wind that was touching the skirts
of the sidewalk girls.

“They told me to get the whole order. How long before it will be done?”

“An hour I’d say.”

Quinn had looked at his watch. Three thirty. He’d still have time to get
back to the mill before five. And it was too noisy, of course, to even think of
using the phone in the job press. “I’ll be back in an hour,” he said.

The old man shrugged and turned away. Quinn had walked out into the
sunshine. It felt good to walk. He stopped in at a quiet bar where the wood was
old and dark and the ale had a taste that was like the smell of burning leaves,
tart and smoky on that October day. And he sat at the bar where he could watch
the sunny sidewalk. He had forgotten to call Burney. And time went too fast. It
was quarter to five when he got back to the job press.

The old man leaned close and yelled, “
Fella
come and took most of the order back with him. Got here a little after four.
Little
fella
with glasses with gold rims.”

Burney himself, and a needless affront when he could have sent someone
else. “The rest of it’s finished. You can take it along now, son.”

The offices were nearly empty when he got back. He put the thin packet of
forms in the storage cabinet. Burney glanced up at him and then returned to the
work he was doing. Quinn turned and looked at Burney’s thin shoulders. He was
annoyed at Burney. What the hell difference did it make? Would the walls fall
down because some forms were late? Damn elderly little accountant, taking
himself and his job too seriously. He shrugged. There was no point in sitting
down at his assigned desk and working just because Burney probably thought he
should feel guilty. Maybe Burney was waiting for some kind of an excuse.

He turned toward the door. At the doorway he paused. “Good night,
Burney,” he said with great casualness.

“Good night, Mr. Delevan,” Burney said, not looking around.

And before that it had always been Mr. Burney and Quinn.

Had it started then? Or the next day when Burney, without explanation,
had given the accounts receivable job to the girl who had been doing it in the
first place, and Quinn had spent most of the day wandering around the mill,
carrying a meaningless sheaf of papers in his hand, thoroughly bored…

He sat and tried to summon up righteous anger, anger at Ben. He tried to
tell himself Ben had kept him ineffectual, Ben didn’t want any competition. It
didn’t work. Ben was right—hideously, irrevocably right. He thought of what
Delahay
had written Ben, and he felt his face get hot.
Probably everybody in the plant had seen through his masquerade. Everybody in
the family. Everybody in the city.

A girl came in quietly with a sheaf of checks already signed by Ben and
placed them on his desk, stood quietly waiting. Quinn closed the trade journal
and placed it aside, pulled the checks over, and countersigned them
automatically, paying no attention to amounts or payees. One of the routine
tasks. One of those little jobs which, added up, made up the one hour a day.
The girl waited, fiddling with the clasp on a bracelet. He wondered what would
happen if he should demand of Ben a full explanation of one of the checks
selected at random, before adding his own signature. That was absurd. Childish.
And the explanation might be too complicated to understand, even if Ben were
willing to give it. He handed the checks to the girl and she walked out. After
she had gone, he realized that she had not said one word to him. She had put
the checks in front of him as though running them through some sort of machine.
Oh, he has to sign the checks because he owns stock or something. No, he never
looks at them. He just signs.

His world had gone very cold and he searched through it for warmth. He
thought of the one place where he would find it. He got up quickly and went out
into the mill and went up to her, aware of her quick surprised look of alarm.
He pretended to be watching what she was doing. “I’ve got to see you,” he said.
“I’ll wait for you at your place.”

She gave a barely perceptible negative shake of her head, lips
compressed.

“I’ll wait for you there,” he repeated and walked away. He saw the other
girls glancing at him. He knew he had given them a ripe basis for speculation.
It did not matter.

He walked from the offices to the garage where he had left his car. It
had been repaired. He drove it away. He parked in front of the old house on
Fremont. He had never been there in daylight before. He walked across the
shallow, defeated yard and around the corner of the house to the private entrance.
He used his key and let himself in.

In the daylight it was unexpectedly dingy, with lumpy-looking upholstery,
stained wallpaper, a rug so worn that the brown cording showed through the
sparse pile. And there was a silent smell in there, as though no one had been
in the apartment for a long time. Yet her morning cup was in the sink under a
dripping faucet. Each drip made a varying musical note. He stepped into the
tiny kitchen and wrenched at the faucet. The cadence of the drip slowed, but it
did not stop. He moved the brimming cup and saucer. The drops made a fainter
splatting
sound against the stained enamel.

He went into the bathroom. There was a wiry brown hair in the lavatory.
He picked it out with a piece of toilet tissue and dropped it in a metal
wastebasket adorned with an incongruous picture in bright color of a cottage
with a white gate and roses. He ran the water and cupped his hands and splashed
his face. The water ran down the drain with a retching sound. The only towel
was slightly damp. It held a smell of soap and flesh. He held his breath while
he dried his face.

He had never been there alone. It gave him a feeling of secretiveness and
curiosity. A tiptoe feeling. Like long ago, a Sunday afternoon when the family
was out and he had gone into Alice’s room, looking for something he could not
define, knowing only that it was a part of the new mysteries that had taken her
off into unknown places.

He found personal things in a bureau drawer. Legal papers, letters,
photographs. The photographs were odd. She had talked of her family. He had
seen them through her eyes. Idealized. But here were the pictures. Strange
rough-dressed people looking uncomfortably into the camera. It made Bonny seem
more a stranger to him.

He read parts of the letters:

… Well, there is nothing more to say, so I must close now, wishing you
luck in your new job.

… Ruth is living in Schenectady where Paul is working for the
G.E
. and she says it is a good job but you know Paul and if
it is good like she says you can bet he will not be keeping it long. Ha. Ha.

… Sis, you got to go back up there when you get a chance and get that
sewing machine away from her. Sally thought you got it and like you said in
your letter you thought Sally got it and the way it turns out neither one of us
got it and you no dam well that if Mom was alive to no about it she would be
sore as Hell. So don’t let her give you any lip the way she will want to do and
tell her we want it. It makes me so dam mad Sally renting one here when there
is the one right in the family Mom bought and paying that dollar and a half a
week on it for God knows how long and if you get it you send it express collect
because Sally can sure use it…