Curtains (13 page)

His bar was much cleaner than the one in the
story, but this place was too sterile to make good fiction. Readers
wanted fantasy, not reality. They got plenty of reality. They got
plenty of hard-backed chairs and plastic potted plants, scores of
vapid muzak melodies piped through polyester speaker grills. I sat
in one of the hard-backed chairs and ordered a beer.

"You that writer fella?" Rocco set a frothy
brew in front of my face.

I was surprised. I didn't make a habit of
telling people I was a "writer." I didn't wear tweed jackets with
leather elbow patches or chew thoughtfully on a thick maple pipe. I
might be crazy for trying to write, but I wasn't insane enough to
advertise. But it was also nice to have my humble accomplishments
recognized.

"I've published a little," I said, trying not
to swell.

He wasn't looking at me anyway. He was wiping
down the bar that was already so shiny customers were afraid to set
down their drinks.

"Fella was in looking for you."

I stopped in mid-hoist, sloshing a little
sticky liquid on my cuff. Who would look for me in a bar? I wasn't
Hemingway. I could barely afford this beer, much less becoming one
of Rocco's house fixtures.

"Big guy. Kinda mean-lookin'."

I laughed. "Let me guess. He thinks I'm
messing with his wife, right?"

"Some people don't think it's funny.
Especially certain husbands." His words were clipped and he kept
his eyes down. "You're an okay guy. Don't spend a fortune, but ya
never cause trouble. Been known to tip."

I was wondering if he was waiting for me to
grease his palm, perhaps with my measly pocket change. But he
continued.

"I know it's none of my business. But I
thought I'd give you some advice, friend to friend. Keep an eye out
for him. He's the dangerous type. Seen 'em before." He nodded to
the perfect round bullet hole that was the only blemish in the
clean silver glass of the bar mirror.

I played along. "What did he look like?"

"Beefy guy, black hair, black like licorice
kinda. Weird eyes, a color you hardly ever see. And he was wearing
a big yella raincoat, and we ain't had rain for a week."

Karen must have put him up to this. She must
have read my work-in-progress and planned this little joke. Surely
she didn't think it was me that was having the affair?

I paid Rocco and left him to wipe up the ring
my half-empty mug had made. I ran the three blocks home and went
into the study to re-read what I had written last night. Sweat was
pooling under my arms and my scalp was tingling, the way they
always did when I was lost in an unfolding plot, only this time my
intestines were unfolding along with it.

His hand suddenly balled into a fist, his
veins becoming swollen with rage.

I was staring at that fist, that big hunk of
ham that looked like it could smash a city bus. I waited for it to
relax, for the little muscles to stop twitching. When it was back
in his pocket, leaving the bill, he said, "Wimpy little smart-assed
writer type. Shifty-eyed know-it-all, been in here with a tall
blonde. You woulda noticed her. Green eyes. Legs all the way down
to the floor."

I had noticed, all right. Some hoity-toity
wiseacre getting a looker like that, and us lonely bartenders
paying through the nose for our company.

"What of 'em?"

"The fifty's for you. A fringe benefit of
knowing things. And it's got a twin here in my pocket."

"Knowin' is cheap, but sayin' ain't."

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a greasy
smile slip across his face.

"Double or nothing, then. The double's for
forgetting you ever saw me."

"Saw who?"

He laid another three fifties down on the
bar. I eyed the joint in the mirror to make sure no one was
watching. Then I swept the money away with my towel and had it in
my pocket, where it would stay until I caught up with Leanna
tonight.

"Lives three blocks down. Number 216
East."

He stood up, making an awfully big shadow on
the scum-stained bar. Then the shadow, and the man in the yellow
slicker, were gone. I felt sorry for that weeny little guy. Any
minute now, he was gonna hear a knocking on his door—

The words danced in golden orange on the
black screen of the word processor. Bad writing. A little too much
Spillane and Chandler . The story had gotten away. Time to dive in,
chop out its heart. Where to begin? Better finish reading it
first.

A pounding on the door interrupted my
thoughts.

—
knocking on his door, then he's going to
hear a yell, a crazy voice of phlegm and
bitterness—

The crazy voice that was outside the
apartment door, yelling "Hey, scumbag, open up or I'll bust the
door down"; yelling "I'll make you pay for all the misery you
caused"; yelling "Nobody's going to mess around with my wife,
especially some snot-nosed fancy boy like you."

—
kicking at the door with those big heavy
boots, reaching inside that canary yellow slicker, grabbing a
fistful of cold gat—

And the boots were on my door, making the
hinges groan under the splintery strain.

—
busting through and standing over the
poor little loser, who's lookin' up at his killer, beggin' ,
pleadin', offerin' up money he ain't got and prayin' to a God he
don't believe in—

And the man in the yellow slicker is standing
at the study door, holding a gun, his reddish-gold eyes blazing
with insane hatred. I can see his finger tightening on the trigger.
It's like a Stephen King story gone south, without the plot twists.
Writer's character becomes real and comes to get him. It's been
done too many times. Too trite even for me.

But the smell of metal and tension is too
real, and the door is hanging like a wino from a boxcar.

—
and he's sittin' at his little writing
desk with his wimpy finger over the "delete" button, all he's got
to do is press it and the man will go away. But he can't bring
himself to do it. His work is too precious, too IMPORTANT to wipe
out
.

I take two hot slugs to the head, feel my
brains begin their awkward eternal journey to the study wall. In
its last moment of awareness, the ruined cerebellum searches
frantically for a tidy ending, some way to bring the plot to
completion, only it's much too far gone, much too hopeless, and the
curtain of darkness...no, the veil of shadows...no, the wall of
nothingness descends...

When Sil came home from work, he found Karen
sitting in the study, staring at the word processor. The screen was
full, and her face was orange in its glow. "What are you doing in
here?" he asked.

"Oh, just messing around."

"Working on something?"

"I figured since everybody else was playing
'writer,' I might as well try my hand at it. Put myself in your
shoes, to coin another cliché. Walk a mile in your gloves. But it's
a lot harder than I thought. I believe I'd better take Faulkner's
advice and kill my darlings."

She was reaching out to press the "delete"
button when Sil caught her wrist. "Don't I get to read it
first?"

"Well, if you really want to. But promise not
to make fun of me."

"After some of the garbage I've written?"

Karen got up and let Sil take the chair. She
said, "At least one good thing came out of this. Now I understand
how you get so caught up in this stuff. You writers are nuts."

"That's
we
writers, dear." Sil
laughed. He loved her. He began reading.

I was wiping down the bar with an old shirt
rag when he came in. The man in the yellow slicker. I saw him
without looking up...

###

“
Have them live here? No way,”
Richard said shaking his head.

The request wasn’t exactly a revelation. The writing
had been on the wall for at least a year. The intervals between
tear-sodden appeals for cash had become shorter and shorter, and
the sums had gotten larger and larger. At first, it was the odd
fifty or sixty bucks now and then. But recently, it was a regular
three hundred every month. Michelle’s parents promised to pay it
back and Michelle covered for them. But he wasn’t a fool. Ted and
Eleanor weren’t generating the kind of income to pay back their
loans. They lived in a financial minefield of their own creation
and this time they’d stepped on all the mines at once--taking out
more than just themselves.

It was so unfair. After five years of marriage, he
and Michelle had just gotten themselves straight. The mortgage
payments were manageable at last. The credit cards and student
loans were paid off. The new Honda had been bought with cash.
They’d limped along for years with the old Corolla while they’d
saved because they didn’t want another loan on their credit report.
All this had been achieved through careful money management and
sacrifice. He was so proud. They’d come so far. They were just
starting to live the life they’d promised themselves when they got
engaged.

That was what made his in-laws’ screw-ups so much
more galling. Twice Richard’s age, Ted and Eleanor treated money
with the mentality of teenagers. Only a couple of years from
retirement, they had nothing to show for their lives. Their crummy,
two-bedroom hovel was rented. The car was leased. Pensions and life
insurance had been cashed in years ago. Retirement wasn’t an option
for either of them. They would have to work until they died.

Damn the American
dream
, Richard thought. That was the cause
of Ted and Eleanor’s monetary nightmares. They had to show everyone
they were keeping up with the Joneses. They’d spent a lifetime
trying to project the superficial image that they were at top of
their game, except their lifestyle was built on credit.

He was thankful Ted and Eleanor hadn’t passed on
their trait to Michelle, although there had been problems when
they’d gotten married. She’d run up a string of college loans
because her parents were unable to support her. Only that January
had he and Michelle cleared the last of her college debts. But the
nail in her credit report’s coffin was the credit card she’d
underwritten for her parents when no self-respecting bank would
issue them one. They’d maxed it out in months, with the promise
they would pay it off. They never had.

“
They are going to be evicted in
two weeks. Do you want them to live on the streets?” Michelle
demanded, close to tears.

“
They’re adults. It’s not my
problem, is it?”

“
Richard!”

He snorted, getting up from the kitchen table. It
wasn’t like she disagreed with him. She hated what her parents had
put her through. But none of that counted when parental guilt was
in full effect. He leaned against the wall and crossed his
arms.

“
You really want them to live
here?”

“
We don’t have a choice. Why don’t
you want them here?”

“
Because this is our home--yours
and mine--and no one else’s. They may be your parents but they’re
still strangers to me. I would never feel comfortable with them
here. I would feel like I would have to be on my best behavior. I
would never be myself.” He sighed. “You realize that our sex life
would be over.”

Michelle frowned. “Oh, Richard.”

“
It would be, you know. I couldn’t
make love with them in the next room.”

“
Is that all you’re worried
about?”

“
No, it isn’t. It’s just one thing.
I don’t want to be paying for a home that your parents will be
getting more out of than I will.”

“
Don’t you
mean
we
? The
house
we’re
paying
for… My parents getting more out of it than
we
will…”

Richard snorted again. “See? They’re not even here
and they’re making our life a misery.”

“
So, what do you
suggest?”

“
Tell your dad to get off his butt
and get a job.” Richard couldn’t believe how old that comment made
him sound.

“
He’s got a job.”

“
Oh yeah, it’s a
doozie.”

Michelle’s dad hadn’t worked for years since he was
“laid off.” He’d actually been canned for some stunt that never
made the light of day. Ever since, he’d sunk thousands into late
night TV get-rich schemes that had only gone to make someone else
rich. Richard shuddered to think what the latest flash in the pan
was.

“
I bet you’d be singing a different
tune if this was your parents. They don’t have jobs."

“
Don’t go there.”

“
Why not?”

He sighed. “It’s not an issue, is it? My parents are
retired now. They have good pensions. Money isn’t a problem for
them.”

“
What if their pensions dried
up?”

“
They wouldn’t.” Richard paused.
“This isn’t getting us anywhere.”

“
Okay, you’ve made it very clear
that you don’t want them living with us.” Razor-edge bitterness
barbed Michelle’s words. “We have other options.”

“
Like what?”

“
We can pay their rent?”

“
What?” Richard was incredulous.
“And pay their back rent, I suppose?”

“
Obviously.”

“
Well, you can think
again.”

“
Okay, we buy a second
home.”

Richard was laughing. “No way.”