Letting Go (95 page)

“Hey—”

The TV set was on; the place smelled of furniture polish. He pictured Bigoness rubbing down the living room suite and watching give-away shows all day. To his own astonishment, he stepped forward and turned off the sound.

“I’m busy—”

“I see your car’s been washed,” Gabe said. “You can’t be that busy.”

“Me washing my car is none of your business.”

“My business is that you have a car.”

“Oh man, everything is your business.”

“You have a car, yet you took money for train fare—”

“I never said I didn’t have a car. I like to take trains, that’s all.” He had no intention of being comic.

“You like to take money apparently.”

“God damn you, I never stole in my life!”

He saw with relief that Bigoness had not shut the door behind him; it became easier to get his words out. “I’m saying that you had no right to take all that money in the first place. In the second place, you had no right to spend it and then tell me you and your wife can’t come up to Chicago a week from Monday because you can’t afford to. That money was so you could afford to.”

“I said I had—”

“Just let me finish. Third—you see—you had no right to go back on your word.”

“You done now?”

“For the moment.”

“I ain’t signing any papers.”

So much weariness and so much rage rose within him that the one canceled out the other.

“I don’t want to get mixed up in anybody else’s troubles.” It was Bigoness who had spoken.

“You are mixed up in them.”

“No, sir,” said Bigoness, shaking his head.

“Your wife’s mixed up in them.”

“Uh-uh.”

“Bigoness, what is it you want?” But what he expected to hear, he did not. Bigoness’s finger slid in under his belt. The man had no grand schemes; he had no grand mind. It was victory enough for him to walk cockily to the window, slightly bowlegged, his fingers hooked in his trousers. It was enough for him to have suddenly become a cowboy. God! Gabe wished himself the owner of a pistol, a knife. But what did he have, outside of his will, and his intelligence, and whatever strength was in his body? And that strength was probably not as great as his opponent’s. He sat behind a desk all day. Still, he had ten or twelve pounds on the fellow, at least two inches … The vision he had was of himself leaping upon the man’s back and pummeling him until he agreed to show up a week from Monday. The back he saw himself pummeling was, in fact, turned to him now. If he was going to jump, this was his chance.

Of course he did not even begin to take it. “I think,” he said to the back, “you’re allowing the situation to run away with you. Perhaps I’ve made it sound like a larger issue than it really is.”

The back—at least it might just as well have been the back—spoke. “Man, you don’t go around laying out cash for small issues. I’m getting out while the getting’s good.”

“That cash was for train fare and expenses.”

“I got a right to change my mind.” He turned to show his face: stolid. Not till then did Gabe realize that he was himself sitting on the sofa, that he had sat down.

“Let’s forget the forty-five,” Gabe said.

Bigoness’s lashes fluttered; only half his eyes showed. “What do you mean, forget it?”

“Forget it. That’s all. You had a doctor bill—”

“You don’t believe me?”

“Whatever you had is okay with me. Let’s simply forget it.”

“Well,” said Bigoness, coming around to turn up the sound of the television, “all right, I’m willing.”

Bigoness was willing.

Gabe ignored everything he could possibly ignore. “Now we can start from scratch,” he said.

“We sure can.”

“I want to assure you”—repeating and repeating and repeating—“that neither of these papers that you sign will bind you to anything whatsoever. In fact, it’s precisely the opposite that you’re going to bring about. Signing these papers will free you from any responsibility where Theresa’s baby is concerned. Do you see that? Isn’t that clear yet?”

“I ain’t signing any papers.”

“But aren’t you listening to me?”

“I just told you, Mister,” said Bigoness, as though addressing one demented, “that I don’t want to get involved. Understand? Get it? You’re willing to forget the forty-five bucks, I’m willing to forget it. Why don’t we call it quits, before we get angry at each other.”

“Bigoness”—he was barely able to prevent his head from dropping into his hands—“there’s a child’s life involved here. A child can have a decent family and a good life and a good education, and all it takes from you is a short little trip into Chicago …”

“You hand me a laugh, you know?” He had not interrupted Gabe; he had only waited for exhaustion to overtake him. “You think you can come out here and just push people around because they’re having hard times, don’t you? Just tell people what to say and where to sign on the dotted line. You think nobody’s got anything to think about but you and your business. But I’ll tell you, buddy”—pointing—“people have been thinking they’re going to tell me what to do all my life. Now you’re working, now you ain’t; now you’re making a buck eighty an hour, now you’re making a buck eighty-five; now you’re a man, now you’re nothing but a nursemaid. And now you’re going to tell me I’m going to sign those papers, and I’m telling you”—tapping his chest—“I’m not. I make up my mind about things—nobody makes it up for me. Not you, not Tessie, not that bitch Wanda, not anybody but Harry Bigoness! And don’t you go telling me about decent families, you hear? What the hell you mean? I ain’t been out of this place for six weeks—I could’ve run
out on those kids too, you understand? But I got guts, you understand that? I could say just like Wanda—screw ’em, and just take off too. But I’m no bum, Mister. Nobody’s ruining my life for me. I work in a factory and you walk around in a tie all day, but at least I earn an honest living. You think I’m some kind of lower kind of person, but I didn’t run out on those kids, did I? I got ’em a new mama, didn’t I? I always held a job, since I’m sixteen years old, and I read a couple books too, in case you want to know, and I didn’t make this recession—understand?—and don’t think you’re going to shove anybody around because of it!”

“You’re telling me then that you won’t do it?”

“Jesus, you’re a slow learner, ain’t you? I told you that on the phone. You could have saved yourself the gas.”

“What does your wife think of this?”

“She knows what’s good for her.”

“I’d like to see her.”

“Hey, I just asked you, who do you think you’re shoving around?”

Again the image of himself leaping upon Bigoness, dragging him down by the throat, crossed his mind, even as he was thinking that he should never have come. He was only matching pride against pride. Dumb pride against dumb pride.

“Then what do you propose to do about this child your wife brought into the world?”

“I don’t think I get you, Wallace.”

“As far as the law is concerned, it’s you who’s responsible for this child. Look, I told you all this last time.”

“And what is it you’re asking?”

“I’m asking what you propose to do about it.”

“—you take me for stupid—”

He rose; he could not bear one more minute of it.
“I take you—”

There was a banging beneath him, a thumping, as though his heart was beating upwards in him. A broom handle whacked against the ceiling below, then a voice, “Phone!” Bigoness was darting past him, through the doorway—

“Right there!” he called, tearing down the stairs. “Hold it!”

Gabe stood where he was, each shoe planted on a dragon. Beneath him were the grotesque designs; around, hemming him in, were the heavily oiled surfaces of the elaborate furnishings. When he finally made a move it was only mildly defiant; he switched off the television set. Then he looked around. Where was the phone? He
was not sure whom he wanted to call; it was simply that there were other people whose business was more properly the Bigonesses than was his own.

In the dark corridor that led to the bedrooms, the phone sat on a small table. He picked it up to find it dead. Of course—he was not thinking. His eye throbbed, opportunely. He could leave because he needed his shot. He could leave because he had an appointment in the Loop at five. Instead he moved further in the apartment, at first aimlessly, then after some clue to Theresa’s whereabouts. The search began to seem rational.

He entered a room where the shades were drawn; the mattress was furled with sheets and the carpet littered with cups and saucers. He pulled at the tangle of bedding and a man’s pajama top slipped onto the floor. He groveled under the blankets with one hand, and pulled forth what turned out to be a thin blue nightgown. He rushed to the closet. Suits, trousers—a dress! Skirts! Hanging before him was Theresa’s gold skirt. She did live here! He turned a pocket inside out, heard a noise—and made a break for it.

The noise came from back of one of the doors leading off the hall. It was only the whine of a kitten or a puppy. He went into the kitchen and began to open all the drawers. He could leave because nothing was working out. Nothing was in these drawers but silverware, playing cards, and green stamps.

The noise again. A child, a little boy, somewhere in the apartment. And with him his mother, hiding? His stepmother? He followed after the sound, located the door, and opened it. He really should go; this was insane.

The boy was strapped to the toilet seat. When he saw Gabe he let out an agonized scream. He strained to release himself from the seat; his face went from red to white to red again; the odor of the child’s feces was overpowering. Gabe’s eye throbbed. He closed the door, then opened it and was in the bathroom, leaning over the miserable child. The odor was of sickness. He slid the boy’s shirt up and looked for whatever was holding him down. The child began to pull and yank, his arms straining upwards as he screamed and wept.

Wallace!

No one was calling him. But his head grew dark and heavy, as though a blow had been struck upon it. His stomach was turning. He was himself, but this life was another’s. The room was pink; so was the toilet paper; so were the dirty linens stuffed into the bathtub. His fingers worked along the tape that crisscrossed the child’s middle.
Minutes passed before he came to a small knot at the side of the seat. He worked at it with what he thought was all his attention. But he had no luck. He kneeled on the floor before the child, and at last he gave in and held his head in his hands.
I am here.

Go! Go away!

Suddenly he was flooded with sympathy for Bigoness. He worked helplessly at the tape, feeling only sorrow for the stupid bastard. The law that held him accountable was absurd. Him meaning Bigoness. He heard Bigoness saying that he was not involved. So why didn’t he leave the man alone?
Go home.
But in that same instant he saw himself strangling Bigoness, squeezing his throat till the face turned colors—and then was no color. He was holding a gun to Bigoness’s head—At that moment the child shot forward, arms and legs whirling. A pain shot through Gabe’s whole body—he had been caught on the side of the head by the little boy’s shoe.
His eye!
He howled; the child screamed hysterically.

“Shhhh,” he said, shaking. “Quiet, shhhhh …” He wiped the child’s brow, then his own. He hunched over the tape, as though working against time. He should look through all of Theresa’s pockets. He should never have left her alone in that taxi. Why not?
How
not? His arms were hanging at his sides, three times their own weight. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t handle it. Alone he would only complicate matters further. Call Jaffe. He was at a point with Bigoness where he could save nothing. There was a point beyond which it made no sense to go. That was called prudence—

 … She had wanted to smack him. She had planned it, right there on the steps. She had led him on. Always she had led him on, made use of him, tried to rope him—

The child wept, actual suffering, actual tears. Gabe’s fingers were no longer of any use. They were stiff. Revolted suddenly, his stomach turned and turned. He rushed to the window and flung it open. Down in the alleyway below, the little Bigoness girl pedaled back and forth. Call Jaffe.

“Shhhhh, please—just a minute … you’ll be all right.” He had turned back to the boy, a nondescript dark-haired child. He touched the damp hair. He felt sorry again for Bigoness, a man who had stuck by his children. He forced himself to get control, to think straight. He would have taken his coat off, but it did not seem to him that he had time. He searched (telling himself: I am an educated man, I am a decent man) and he searched for the little hook that
held the child down—and discovered instead the toilet handle. An educated man, he finally flushed it. The water rushed, the child howled, the smell rose, and diving down one final time, he found the attachment that bound the child, and ripped it open.

He had to pick up the boy. He had to clean him. Flushing the toilet a second time, he carried him from the bathroom. He moved under weights that were only his clothes, his shirt and jacket and coat. All right, he had been imprudent—
now
was he happy? But there was no backing out, not if he had gone too far. But when had he begun going
too
far? He told himself,
I am here
, and it meant nothing.

“What the hell—you crazy—
Put that kid down!
” Bigoness was flying at him, his arms making great circles.

“I just took him off—”

“Put him down! I know where you got him, you son of a bitch!”

“You left him tied—”

“You son of a bitch!
Give him to me!
” The child out-howled his father, as he was wrenched away.

“I wasn’t stealing your baby! God damn it, let’s keep this straight—!”

“Get out! Get out, Wallace, before I call the police!”

“Call the police and you’ll make the biggest—”

“—no mistake to throw a guy like you in jail.” He rocked the weeping child in his arms.

“You’re letting your imagination run away with you.”

“I’m calling the cops. I’ll give you three.”

Quickly Gabe said, “You’ll bring your creditors right down on your head.”