Do Evil In Return (12 page)

“Any vacancy?” she said.

“Yes, ma’am. Number Four over there. Bath and shower, Beautyrest mattress. Six dollars a night.”

“That will do.”

She parked her car in front of Number Four, and came back to register at the office her name and address and the make and license number of her car. A card on the desk identified the fat man as Mr. Boy H. Coombs, Mgr., La Siesta Motel.

“You a doctor, eh?” Mr. Coombs said. “I see by your car.”

“Yes.”

“I never saw a lady doctor so close up before. In the movies I have, though. Ingrid Bergman was a doctor in a movie once, fell in love with Gregory Peck, only Peck happened to be…”

“Yes, I know. ‘Spellbound.’ ”

“Yes, yes, that was it. ‘Spellbound.’ I don’t know what she saw in Gregory Peck. He’s skinny as a broom, besides being a nut—in the picture, I mean.”

“Have you a phone book?”

The question took him by surprise. He had to stop a moment to make the transition from romance to phone books. “Well, sure we have.”

“I just want to look up an address.”

“Oh. Sure.” He searched around the desk and under the counter for the phone book and couldn’t find it. He stood up, panting from the exertion, and wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his pink shirt. “Somebody must have swiped it off of me. That’s low, stealing a phone book.” (But there was a dreamy look in his eye; the fat boy was Dick Tracy, out for revenge, on the trail of the thief who took the telephone book. On his slender wrist, a two-way radio. In his head, a photographic memory.)

“Perhaps you can help me locate someone,” Charlotte said crisply, and Mr. Coombs’s eyes snapped back into focus.

“I should be able to, lived here in town all my life.”

“Do you know Mrs. Myrtle Reyerling?”

“Myrtle? I sure do. Why, Sergeant Reyerling’s one of our war heroes, got his name on a plaque in the First National Bank, corner of Third Street. Myrtle lives in an apartment above Woolworth’s. You can’t miss it. Drive straight into town and there it is.”

“Thanks.”

The Woolworth store had a bright new façade but the apartments above it were dark and airless and smelled of last month’s grease and last week’s cabbage.

Charlotte paused before a door marked in pencil on a torn slip of paper, M. Reyerling. The transom was open and there were sounds inside the room, not sounds of quarreling, but of two women vociferously agreeing with each other about a third who wasn’t present

“I told her. I told her time and again.”

“I know you did, you bet you did.”

“But no, no, she was headstrong. Always believing the best of people. The
best.
Huh. I know now there’s no
best
in anyone. Only better. And them damn little better than the worst.”

“You’re absotively right, Myrtle, but don’t let it get you down.”

It was Myrtle Reyerling who opened the door, a tall, thin woman in her late twenties, with a six-inch pompadour that listed slightly to one side like a schooner in a high wind. Her mouth was pinched-looking, her jaw hard, but there was something pathetic about her eyes; they were questioning, bewildered.

“Mrs. Reyerling?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Charlotte Keating, a friend of Violet’s.”

The woman turned away, swallowing, swallowing again, before she spoke. “I guess you know about her then?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Come in if you want to. This here’s my girlfriend, Sally Morris.”

A dark-haired young woman with a wiry body and big muscular legs acknowledged the introduction with a nod.

“It’s all over town,” Mrs. Reyerling said. “Whisper, whisper, whisper, about how Violet was in the family way and not by Eddie. I don’t believe it. Violet was a good girl. My kid sister. Was a good girl and don’t anybody say different.”

“Now take it easy, Myrt.”

“She was a
good girl.”

The young woman called Sally made a little gesture of impatience. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, good girls can do a lot of the same things as bad girls. I just told you, I saw her with my own eyes. She was in that bed, sleeping. And there were signs—know what I mean?”

“No!”

“Now Myrt, you know me, I’m no gossip, but I’m no dumbbell either. I’ve been working around there long enough to know the
signs.”

Charlotte interrupted, “Signs of what?”

“Well, you know.” There was an embarrassed silence before the girl broke out again: “In the
first
place what was she doing there, sleeping at eight o’clock in the morning in a man’s room? The man was already checked out—he left the key in the lock outside like it says on the door to do when you check out. Well, I saw the key and I figured I’d get the room made up early. I went in, and there was Violet sleeping peaceful as a baby. I didn’t say anything. It wasn’t any of my business. I just walked out again and rapped on the door real hard to wake her up. Then I beat it. I didn’t even tell Myrtle about it until today. She always made so much fuss when Violet did anything wrong, even when she took a drink or smoked a cigarette.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Mrs. Reyerling whispered. “I didn’t. I had to look after her, she was my kid sister. I wanted her to grow up to be a lady.”

“Sure. Sure, I know, Myrt. I’m not blaming you. It’s life, is all. We all got to take it on the chin.”

“How many times do
I
have to take it? How many chins you think I’ve got?”

“Now, Myrt.” The girl turned to Charlotte. “I work at a motel, see? Rose Court, it’s called; on the other side of town. That’s where I saw her, in this guy’s room.”

“Do you remember the man?” Charlotte asked.

“I didn’t see him. But when I was making up the room afterwards I found a tie he’d left behind in the john. I never saw a tie like it before. It was blue with gray coins on it and little wee dice with red eyes. I thought I’d hook it to give to my old man, maybe it’d bring him luck in a crap game. But I got cold feet, and turned it in to my boss, Rawls. Rawls is as honest as the next guy, which isn’t saying much, because he started to wear the tie himself, instead of mailing it to the man who’d left it behind.” She hesitated a moment. “I’m not saying anything
against
Rawls, exactly. If he found a wallet he’d probably turn it in to the police minus a few bucks for his trouble. But this tie—he couldn’t resist it. He thinks he’s a pretty classy dresser. Around town they call him Adolphe Menjou.”

Mrs. Reyerling had gone to the window and was looking down into the street below, her arms folded across her breasts.

“Here’s how I figure it,” Sally said. “If it happened once it could have happened plenty of times, so maybe this man who left the tie had nothing to do with Violet’s being in the family way.”

“It never happened at all.” Mrs. Reyerling didn’t turn. She addressed the window pane as if it was some land of impersonal umpire. “The kid was Eddie’s. He said it wasn’t because he was sick of Violet. He was playing around with somebody else and he wanted to drive Violet away.”

Sally didn’t argue. She made a little grimace at Charlotte to indicate that Myrtle was beyond reasoning.

Charlotte said, “Perhaps if I could talk to Mr. Rawls, he might remember…”

“Now
wait
a minute. You think he’d admit anything? Not on your life! He’d swear black and blue there wasn’t any man or any tie or even any motel. How could he admit about the tie without admitting he’s a crook? Why, if he did, they might take away his AA Approved card. Those AAA people are fussy. They don’t stand for stuff like that. They’re always snooping, around to see if I changed the bath mats and the shower curtains and swept under the beds.” She paused. “Rawls won’t tell you a thing. Besides, I might get fired, see?”

“I see, of course.”

“You won’t go to Rawls, then?”

“No.”

“I should have kept my yap shut, anyway,” Sally said with a trace of bitterness. “I don’t know what gets into me, to talk so much. I just came over here to help Myrt, to cheer her up.”

Mrs. Reyerling turned a flat gaze on her. “Cheer me up… Tell me lies about my own sister.”

“Now listen, Myrt. Don’t go turning against
me.”

“Bad lies.”

The girl was beginning to get angry; a red flush crept gradually up her neck like the colored mercury in a thermometer. “You better look into your own conscience. Who was it that got Violet going around with Eddie in the first place? Who was it kept saying, ‘Eddie’s a nice dependable guy. He’ll make some girl a good husband.’ Who was it said, ‘Looks aren’t everything.’ Hell no, looks aren’t everything, he may look like a chimpanzee with smallpox but you’ll get used to it, Violet Once you got Mrs. in front of your name…”

“I didn’t,” Mrs. Reyerling cried. “I didn’t force her to marry him. I didn’t even ask her to. She liked him.”

“You told her to like him.” Her mimicry was sharp, cruel: “ ‘Marry Eddie and love will come later, and maybe he’ll even get over those little habits of his, like pulling the wings off flies.’ ”

“Stop! Stop it!” Mrs. Reyerling put her hands over her ears and ran into the bedroom.

They could hear the thud of her body as she flung herself across the bed. She didn’t weep, but heavy, anguished breathing rose and fell in the humid air, the breathing of a wounded animal.

Sally’s belligerence was gone. She stood scratching the side of her neck where the flush had been, looking ashamed of herself. “I guess I ought to keep my temper more.”

“I suppose we all should.”

“What I said was the truth, but not the whole truth. The whole truth—well, that’s hard to get at, the
why
of everything. I guess Myrt had her reasons for wanting Violet to be married, to be settled down and safe. It’s not her fault that she judged Eddie wrong.” She lapsed into silence.

“I’d better leave,” Charlotte said. “If there’s anything I can do to help Mrs. Reyerling, I’ll be at the Siesta Motel.”

“I know it. It just opened. We already got so many nobody’s making money any more.”

“Perhaps I can drive you back to work.”

“No thanks. I’m through for the day. I’d stay here and make Myrt some tea. She’ll snap out of it. I looked after her the day she got the telegram about Tom dying.” She added, with a sad little sigh, “Maybe we don’t act like friends, sometimes, but we are.”

Charlotte stepped out into the hall. She had the feeling that the girl had spoken the truth. She and Myrtle had a bond of friendship that would survive the bickerings, as well as the tragedies, of day-today existence.

On the street below, the rays of the late afternoon sun shot through the plate-glass windows of stores and ricocheted off the sidewalks and the white stucco walls of buildings. The heat was palpable, like a layer of jelly, through which the cars crawled and the pedestrians moved sluggishly.

Only the children hurried, boys on bicycles weaving through the traffic with careless ease, and grade-school girls, intent and purposeful, impatient for the next minute, the next week, the next year.

Charlotte unlocked her car. She thought of Violet walking up and down this same street, softer than the other girls, not quite so forceful, so decisive. (And Mrs. Reyerling had known this about Violet, perhaps—had tried to protect her and blundered.)

She had a feeling of discontent, of failure. The further she plunged into Violet’s life, the murkier and more diffuse it became. It was like diving into a strange lake, diving deeper and deeper and gradually realizing that the lake had no bottom, only a constantly moving silt that would never settle. One could reach out and grasp at the silt—as Violet herself had reached out and grasped in her final moments—but when the fist was opened it contained only a few grains of sand and the marks of fingernails on one’s own flesh.

She turned the car around and headed back in the direction of the motel. She wondered if Easter had arrived in town yet and what he was up to. Perhaps the girl Sally would be too afraid of losing her job to tell him about the tie Rawls had kept. Or perhaps he wouldn’t see Sally at all. She might be gone by the time he reached Mrs. Reyerling’s apartment and it was unlikely that Mrs. Reyerling would tell Easter about her and give Sally a chance to repeat her story.

She felt obscurely pleased that Easter might never find out about the episode in the motel but she didn’t understand why she should feel this way. The episode didn’t involve her personally. It concerned only the nameless, faceless man who had left a tie in a motel bathroom and the seed of a child in Violet’s womb. She realized that she was afraid of Easter. Though he couldn’t harm her, couldn’t even touch her, the fear was growing, stupidly, irrationally. What had he said on the telephone last night…? That he was driving up “unofficially.” This could mean that, officially, the case was closed. She suddenly hoped that it was, closed and filed away forever in a steel drawer.

She had an early dinner at a drive-in on Main Street. When she arrived back at her motel the sun was settling into a pillow of pink clouds and Mr. Coombs had turned on his red neon vacancy sign. He was still sitting in the kitchen chair, looking strangely dwarfed by the background of huge trees. He had finished his comics for the day, piled them neatly on the wooden step with a stone on top to keep his dreams from blowing away. Captives, they fussed and fluttered in the rising wind.

Mr. Coombs nodded, and tipped an invisible hat “Evening.”

“Good evening.”

“Cooling off some. Still too hot inside, though. If you want to sit out for a spell, I’ll bring you a chair.”

“No thanks, don’t bother.”

Mr. Coombs slapped at a mosquito on his forearm. “You get in touch with Myrtle Reyerling all right?”

“Yes.”

“Her kid sister died. A genuine tragedy.”

“I heard about it.”

“O’Gorman, her name was. I know her husband, we went to school together. He worked in a bar about a quarter-mile up the road, but I hear he blew town.”

“What bar?”

“Sullivan’s. Sullivan’s been dead for ten years, but they still call it that.” He stopped, looking a little embarrassed. “If you should want a drink there are places better than Sullivan’s. I mean, it’s not a very high-class establishment, that’s what I mean.”