Intimate Victims (16 page)

“Oh,” she would say, “it’s you back.”

Or she wouldn’t say anything, depending on her mood, but she would cry in that detestable way again and hang on to him tightly, the way he had dreamed of her doing when he was alone.

Now, however, he had the letter. It was in his pocket. He would have to leave without telling her where he was going, without any notice to her that he was planning to leave. He could not chance anyone’s knowing his plans. In four days, he would be cleared out of 702 Wentwroth.

She left the children with Mrs. Hill after they got back to the house. He knew she was going to arrange something when he took her hand in the car. He knew too that there was nothing physical between Banjo and Bunny. “We just neck,” she had told him once; God, what an impossible word “neck” was! Before this whole thing had happened to him, he had never known anyone who used the word. Well, there you were! He supposed after he left they would probably … but he refused to entertain any thoughts about what she would do once he was gone. It would be no concern of his. He felt sad with that knowledge. He made love to her in his apartment that afternoon with a melancholy mood — but his sadness was mixed with relief and pity for her. He knew it was good for her when they were together. Once, up in 3, he had peeked into a recent diary of hers and seen an entry which said, “Me again. R. is the b.l. I ever had, but the b! Nite Nite.” He was always tickled by her inclination to camouflage her more personal activities. Once, they had eaten out at a restaurant in Columbia and their table was squeezed next to someone else’s; everything they said could be overheard. Bunny had leaned forward at one point and said to Battle, “Do you think anyone in here knows we’re s.l.e.e.p.i.n.g. together?” Battle had roared with laughter and answered, “Not unless they can s.p.e.l.l.”

• • •

While she was putting her clothes back on, Battle watched her wistfully. Margaret had always been ashamed to walk about naked. There was something contagious about such an attitude. Bowser too had always covered himself. He liked the way Bunny did it — not matter-of-factly — she was aware she was pretty and she did not let herself assume any postures which would detract from that idea, but she was neither self-conscious nor exhibitionistic, and it was the same way in bed. Oddly enough, Margaret was a bit exhibitionistic in bed; things were always a little overdone with Margaret. It was her extravagance again; it was the same way she shopped. She did not really need anything; it was just that when you shopped, you shopped.

• • •

“Scott and I are going to a drive-in,” said Bunny, buttoning her blouse. “Out by the Hinkson.”

“Well, have a good time.” He admired the sound of generosity and permissiveness in his voice. He meant it; why shouldn’t he?

“Thanks. I really like Scott.”

“I’m just sorry it’s someone like Scott. I think you deserve better, that’s all.”

“At least he’s my own age.” “Umm hmmm.”

“He could have gotten into a fraternity. I asked him. He was rushed by ?TO and Lambda Chi.” “Sure.”

“Well, he was, Ray.”

Battle got off the bed and walked across, turned her around and kissed her. “I love you, Bunny,” he said. “Have a good time tonight. I mean that.”

“Thank you,” she said. “I’m really looking forward to it.”

“Good.”

“Bye, Ray. See you tomorrow some time.”

“Bye!” he said. He smiled and blew her a kiss. She had that strange little pinched expression on her face as she went out the door. Poor kid; she was beginning to fall hard.

He made himself a lamb chop and a baked potato, and ate it in front of the TV, not concentrating very much on the news program being shown. He knew all her tricks now. One day last week when he had gone up to 3 at the usual time, she had left an unfinished letter on her desk.

“Dearest,” it began, “How I have missed you, my love, thinking of you day and night.”

He had said, “Who’s ‘Dearest’?”

“No one you know,” she had answered. He saw her suppress a smile of self-satisfaction, and he had known instantly the letter was a plant, put there for his benefit. Her transparencies touched him at the same time they amused him — and sometimes, less and less lately, he was trapped by them, and they would be the cause of another fierce argument. If it was not Banjo she used to taunt him, it was Professor Cameron, her speech teacher, or Mr. Blaststein, her drama teacher — any fool she could think of to name. For Bunny, there was no such thing as an ordinary day, to hear her recount it. This one said something provocative and that one had a certain look; Battle caught on to it after awhile. God, how he could predict her. That afternoon after their love-making he had been sitting there watching her and wondering just how close he could come to predicting her first sentence after she got out of bed. He had bet on: “Scott’s picking me up at eight.”

“Scott and I are going to a drive-in,” she’d said instead.

Battle chuckled and cut up more pieces of the lamb chop. He supposed all women’s games were a bit contagious; after all, he had gone along with a lot of it. He had allowed himself to be carried away with bursts of temper, and with the violent aftermath of making up in bed. Sometimes when they were making up in bed that way, he had a perfect picture of how foolish he looked throughout the whole maneuver, and he would say to himself, “Battle, what an ass you really are! Ass! Ass! Silly ass!”

Then too, he felt slightly repelled by the way she could kid herself at these times, and when she was hanging to him tightly in ecstasy, he was often unable to stop thinking, “What a stupid, empty little bitch you are!” At those times, there was always something clumsy and primeval about whatever position they were in, and he had weird sights to contend with on the screen of his inner mind, as well as the direction of their communion. Sometimes he would see the brutal, ugly, figures of human dissipation as Goya had painted them in his grotesque
Caprichos;
sometimes he would see old four-eyed Robert Bowser back in his solarium at New Hope, that night he had read the letter from Gertrude in Plangman’s wallet. He would see his asinine face taking it all in with that loathsome innocence which was the beginning of this lechery. Battle had read once, in one of Graham Greene’s novels, that innocence was like a dumb leper who had lost his bell.

• • •

He pushed his plate away and stuffed his pipe, put his feet up on the hassock, and lit the tobacco in the pipe. Still, he would have good memories too. A couple of nights they had gotten very pleasantly high together and talked and talked about all sorts of nonsense she was interested in — that Triumph convertible she wanted to match the color of her hair, with a bunny on the door. She had all sorts of things with bunnies on them. Raymond Battle laughed aloud. Handkerchiefs with bunnies on them, coffee mugs with bunnies on them, compacts, scarves, lipstick tubes. She knew it irritated him when she carried on about wanting the Triumph; she had mentioned it again that afternoon. But at times, when they were high, she talked about it, not to irritate him, but because she really did want it, and he listened to her, his good taste anesthetized by the liquor, and he liked listening.

“It would make me feel special to have that car,” she would say.

“Why do you need to feel special?”

“Because I’m not, Ray.”

That answer always made him giggle the same way she did. They would both giggle and kiss, and he felt pretty happy.

Battle changed the channel to a detective series, though he was not in the mood at all for the television tonight. He had never told her very much about himself, naturally. Knowing her partiality for the dramatic, he had mumbled something once about his immense bereavement making it impossible for him to talk about his past. He was sorry he was unable to trust her and tell her the whole thing. To this day, he had no idea whatsoever of how Margaret had taken all of it; simply none. But he knew Bunny. Bunny would be delighted with the idea of protecting him. At the same time she would hold it over his head in every single argument, threatening to expose him, and calling him robber, thief, and thug until she was red in the neck and nearly ready to turn course, and head back in the direction of some soft place to make it all up to him.

He supposed some day he would laugh at it all. Some day, he would look up from a column of figures, or a company report of some sort, and he would remember and his lips would tip in that curious small grin of long ago, and he would hear her voice say, “Thank you,” that special way.

A week ago, on an evening when Mrs. Hill was taking the children to a carnival, he and Bunny had planned dinner together at his place. Bunny had said, “We can have one of our evenings, Ray. Lots of drinks before dinner, something very yummy to eat, with a bottle of wine — a brandy apiece afterwards, and then make love like mad. Hmmm?”

He had never minded the fact she did not like to cook. There were so many things she had never tasted; he liked making them for her. He liked her enthusiasm, and the fact she was not finicky or static in her preferences. He had done the shopping late that afternoon, buying a huge amount of food for a very complicated Paella Valenciana. Margaret loved paella too, but it was not the same to eat something with Margaret, whether she loved it or not. She was always remarking, “They used more saffron in that place in Madrid, remember, Robert. I think it was better.” Or, “Is the rice right? It seems undercooked, doesn’t it, Robert?” He had bought sausage and oysters and lobster and chicken and clams for the dish, and a bottle of Soave, and he was hurrying along College Avenue with his arms full of the packages, humming to himself, and liking the fact Bunny was already in his apartment, making the cold martinis. It was a day when he really did love her (not all days were like that, by any means), and he liked making love with her on such days. He liked having dinner with her beforehand — and lots of, too many, drinks. Bunny understood about having too many drinks before dinner; sometimes it was just the thing to do — but it had always made Margaret either nervous or ill to have more than three before dinner. And toward the end, when Mother Franklin was living with them, it meant that Mother Franklin would have too many too, and she would either dance around lifting her skirts too high, in that depressing way that threw a wrench in the evening, or she would stagger off to the back porch and sob about no one loving her and refuse to eat. Battle hurried along College Avenue with his heart beating gaily, and his spirits soaring — just something simple and wonderful to look forward to. At the corner of College and Crumson, before he turned into Wentwroth, he had noticed the sermon board in front of the Baptist Church. Contained behind the glass was a block of three words, no more. The message said: Enter Into Joy.

He would probably remember that someday too, someday far off — he would remember how he felt when he saw those words. It was a good thing for a man to have a particular day which he could remember in glorious detail, an ordinary and not particularly special day — not a wedding day or a day when a war ended or a day when something big happened — but just a simple day when he felt as though everything was just perfect.

• • •

Battle gave up watching television after he had smoked his pipe. He got out a piece of paper and a ballpoint and began making a list of things to do during the next four days. There was not so much to do, but what there was to be accomplished, had to be taken care of very carefully. He would have to notify Mrs. Plangman that he was going to be out of town for a few days, just in case she dropped by and became alarmed at his absence. He planned to tell Bunny the same thing. He would write his usual letter to Plangman (though Plangman’s last letter asked for no advice, but ranted on about the phony first names some people had, and how Plangman was glad Bowser hadn’t been named something like Adair or Lake. Battle could not make head or tail of it. He suspected Plangman was drunk when he wrote it) and he would leave behind enough things to make it look as though he were returning.

There was not much he wanted to take anyway; certainly not the clothes he had been wearing around Columbia. He would need new clothes. He supposed he would buy them in St. Louis before his plane left.

He walked about thinking of what he would take with him. His shaving equipment and a few ties, shoes, socks, and not much else. He had a snapshot of Bunny and the kids he would take. On the other hand, he wouldn’t take it. Why should he?

He looked at his watch and saw that it was after ten. She would probably not be home for another hour — perhaps later. He turned on the television again, filled his pipe again, and watched a drama about Berlin. In the midst of it, he chuckled, imagining himself married to someone like Bunny. The first thing he would do would be discipline those children. Lordgod, they needed a father, that was certain. He thought of Chrissy, his favorite, and the most difficult. In the ice cream shop that afternoon, he had suggested to Chrissy that she try some other flavor besides chocolate. She always had chocolate; she had never tasted any other kind.

“Try something new,” he had said.

She had stared at him, while he rattled off the names: strawberry, orange, coconut-peach, vanilla. Her wide blue eyes had no expression in them. Finally Battle had said, “We’ll have vanilla, okay?” No answer. “Vanilla it is,” said Battle. Just as he gave the order to the waitress, Chrissy slammed the table with both her fists and screamed out: “I will not have manilla!”

She had then socked Battle in the chest with her fist and yelled, “I don’t like manilla! It’s what I hate!”

She had had her usual chocolate. Battle remembered an evening back with Mother Franklin, when he had absent-mindedly stirred the marshmallow in her hot chocolate, and the old woman had screamed, “Don’t stir it!” He supposed someday, some poor man would … but all Chrissy needed was a little discipline … His watch said eleven on the dot.

Battle got up and walked out into the hall. Down at the end, he peeked through the curtains. There was no car out front. He walked back, and switched channels to the late show. He supposed half the people in Columbia thought he was the children’s grandfather, and Bunny, his daughter. He got up and walked into the bathroom, and looked at himself in the mirror. His back teeth were bad; he supposed when he got to a dentist up in Toronto, he would have to cope with a bridge of some sort. She once said he had enough gold in his mouth to make a bracelet for her. It was when she was lying on top of him, before they had made love. She was the most indelicate damn little bitch he could ever imagine. At a time like that, picking out something like that — and he, he supposed, was supposed to lie there with visions of his ugly gaping gold-jammed jaw and feel romantic. Very typical — the whole damn thing was shoddy — eleven-thirty.