Reinhart's Women (36 page)

“A rich dwarf could make his home in there,” he joked as he put the suitcase therein. “Grace just buy this heap? She got rid of her Imperial?”

Winona smirked uncomfortably. “I miss you, Daddy.” She kissed his cheek, got into the gleaming car, which was obviously brand new, and drove away.

The telephone was ringing as Reinhart returned to the apartment. He took the instrument just inside the door.

“This is Blaine. Put Mercer on the line.”

“Blaine! God Almighty, you had us worried. Where have you been?”

“I asked if Mercer was there.” Same old Blaine.

“Well, she and the boys have been staying here, but she’s not in at the moment.”

“When did she leave? How long has she been gone?”

“That I can’t tell you, Blaine. She was here this morning when I left, at about eleven. I got home I guess an hour ago.”

“You were out all that time?” Blaine asked in outrage. “Were the boys home alone?”

As usual Reinhart was stung. “For God’s sake, you vanish for three days without a trace, abandoning your wife and kids, and then you have the nerve—”

“Are you senile? Vanish? I’ve been out of town on business, but I’ve called her every day. I called earlier this afternoon, but nobody answered.”

“I was here all last night,” said Reinhart. “The phone never rang.”

“I talked to her in the afternoon!”

“Where are you now, Blaine?”

“At home. I just got back from Detroit. I took the night plane the other evening after seeing you and Winona.”

“Why don’t you come over here now? Your life is your own business, but I seem to have become involved in this part of it. I want a better understanding than I have.” His son remained silent. “Blaine, did you hear me?”

“All right,” Blaine said sullenly. “I’ll come.”

“All right, then. Maybe Mercer will have returned by that time.” But Reinhart spoke this into a dead wire: his son had hung up in his usual graceless style.

Reinhart had not had the heart today to so much as look into the bedroom currently being used by Mercer, and before going out that morning he had shaved, etc., in Winona’s bathroom, the one at present assigned to the two small boys, who were neater than their mother.

Now however, distracted, he went for a pee in his own bathroom, with its wastecan overflowing with those female items of volume but no substance, such as wadded Kleenexes, discarded cotton balls, ex-tampon tubes. He washed his hands, planning to carry them wet to the kitchen and dry them on paper towels: none of cloth was available. If Mercer had showered today, she perforce used one from the heap of soaked terry-cloth on the floor between the toilet and the wall—unless of course she simply swathed her wet body in his thirsty-fabric bathrobe, which she had commandeered on arrival and never yet surrendered.

He shook the excess water from his fingers and glanced briefly at his face in the mirror. A note was Scotch-taped to the glass.

“Dad”—

I had to go away—can you run boys home—or wait til B. gets in and hell do it.

sincerly,

M.

When Blaine arrived, a half hour or so later, Reinhart assured him that the boys, still napping, were fine, but that Mercer had not yet returned. Meanwhile they might have a conversation in the living room, over a good stiff drink if Blaine would state his pleasure.

His son stared at him, shrugged, marched in, and took one of the modern chairs that faced the couch. He rejected the repeated offer of a drink. He pointed to the sofa. Reinhart hesitated for a moment, and then, deciding this was hardly the moment to resist Blaine’s bullying in meaningless matters, took a seat where directed. (He thought he could see a faint stain on the cushions where Mercer had vomited, but that may have been a trick of light; the beige rug showed a blond patch, which was now more or less covered by the coffee table.)

He opened his mouth to speak, and Blaine said: “No.”

“But—”

“No, Dad,” Blaine said curtly, “you don’t know anything about it”

“I just wanted to say about Mercer—”

“I don’t want you to say anything about her,” said Blaine. “That’s what I mean. You don’t know what you would be talking about.”

“I’d be the first to admit that,” Reinhart said. “I don’t claim any powers of analysis. Even at close quarters I’ve found her an enigma.”

“Is that all you were going to say?”

“If,” said his father, “that’s all you want me to say.” He would have to seek another means by which to introduce Mercer’s note.

Blaine rubbed the right lobe of his nose with a thumb. As a gesture it was out of character. He sighed, lifted both hands, and brought them down on his thighs. He stood up. “I’d better get the boys.”

Reinhart put out an arm. “Could you stay for a meal? You just got back from a trip, and your children haven’t eaten since lunch at their schools.” He rose. “Let me rustle something up.”

“I just can’t spare the time. Some people are coming in from out of town. I really must get back—”

“Sit down, Blaine,” Reinhart said, gesturing. “I can understand how a man will protect his pride, especially from other members of the family, but there comes a time. ... I’m hardly in a position to score off you. My failings are public knowledge, and your sister has only recently made her confession, though nowadays her ways would not necessarily be called even a weakness. The point is that no human being is without places of sensitivity.”

Blaine’s sneering smile was not attractive. “Well, thanks, Dad. When I need some help you can be sure I’ll apply to you.”

Reinhart drew the note from his pocket and handed it over.

Blaine glanced quickly at the message, balled the paper, and thrust it in the pocket of his pin-striped suit-jacket.

“I’m sorry,” said Reinhart.

Blaine arched his eyebrows. “For what?”

“Doesn’t that mean she’s walking out?”

Blaine shook his head. “Certainly not. She had an appointment, that’s all. Probably one of her classes. She takes various courses. She did some modern dance, studied playwriting, even went to a class called ‘The Police and the Public,’ at the Catholic college over in West Hills. I think it’s admirable for a person to explore their potentialities.”

“I think I really should tell you,” Reinhart said, grimacing, “a couple of times recently Mercer turned up over here, somewhat the worse for wear, as if more than drunk. Does she take any kind of medication?”

Blaine looked at him. “She has a full life. She has lots of her own friends. I say, more power to her.” He stood up abruptly, wrinkled his nose, sniffed, and spoke. “I really must leave.”

“Your mother was here earlier. She got some more money from Winona. Is she really going to California?”

Blaine nodded briskly. “Of course. If she says so. I have never known Mother not to carry things through.”

“Same is true of you, Blaine,” said Reinhart. “You actually are quite impressive at it.”

Blaine turned and marched back to the bedroom to get his sons. Before long he reappeared, followed by two small stragglers, each of whom carried a Matchbox car. Blaine held the one valise that served both boys: the smaller you are, the lighter your travel. In the pocket on the right round of his little jeans-clad butt Toby carried the bandanna given him by his grandfather. It was too big for the pocket, and most of it dangled. When Reinhart came to say good-bye, he snatched at it.

“Somebody’s going to steal your tail,” he said.

“No, they’re not!” Toby cried in his contrary style, but when Reinhart turned to address Parker he saw, from the side of eye, that the senior grandson was furtively tucking the bandanna in.

“Well, Parker, it’s been nice having had you on board,” said Reinhart, and did not dwell on the ceremony of parting, for a child of that age is like a cat about such matters and won’t meet your eye.

He opened the door and told the boys: “Run down and punch the elevator button. The bottom one.”

“I know!” said Toby. He got the jump on his brother, but Parker’s flying sneakers were close behind.

“But don’t get on the elevator until your father gets there!”

“I know!” said Toby.

Reinhart spoke to Blaine. “I really enjoyed having them. I got to know them a little better. They’re nice boys, Blaine. Any time I can serve as baby-sitter...”

Blaine looked lofty. “Of course a nanny would be the answer.” He did not go so far as to assume a British accent, but still, he was a remarkable fellow.

When they had left Reinhart went to gather up the dirty laundry, stuffing to the limit two pillowcases. He took these down to the basement, filled two washers, dropped into the respective slots the requisite coins, and was on his way back to the apartment, there to wait until it was time to return and transfer the wet wash to the dryers, when he encountered Andrew, the doorman, who was just coming off his shift. He hadn’t spoken anything beyond the commonplaces to Andrew since the day that Mercer had left the building clad only in a towel. Reinhart had not seen any great reason to bring the man up to date on the subject of his daughter-in-law. Andrew had no doubt seen worse in his years of service.

“Home to supper,” he said now, remembering that he himself was all alone this evening.

“Yes, indeed,” Andrew said with obvious satisfaction. “I’ll say good evening to you, Colonel.”

“Say, Andrew,” Reinhart said, turning back after they had passed each other. “It was only today that I discovered that the landlord’s daughter lives right here in the building.” He laughed lightly at his ignorance.

“I expect you mean Edie Mulhouse,” said Andrew. “But she is Edwin Mulhouse’s child. He just works as a bookkeeper for his brother Theodore M., who is the one who has the money.”

Reinhart looked up and down the basement corridor, seeing no one. “Edie’s a very nice girl, but I don’t think she’s found herself yet”

The doorman maintained an expression that might be seen as benevolently detached, and Reinhart understood it as the mark of the professional.

“Sorry,” he said. “I was just thinking out loud, not asking your opinion of a tenant.”

He said good night to Andrew. After two more trips down to the laundry room, one to transfer the clothes to the dryer and the second to fetch the load back home, he fell into the kind of dispirit which sometimes even claims a cook, and he made his own supper childishly on a peanut-butter sandwich and a glass of milk.

He was lonely, but it was at least a relief to have his room back. He made up a fresh bed, and after having taken a leisurely shower and dried himself with a fluffy fragrant towel, he put on the television set and inserted himself between the fresh sheets. If he ever made any money, he wanted to get himself one of those remote-control gadgets. As it was, he did not dare to do more than nap fitfully throughout the evening, for fear he would fall into a sound sleep and stay in it till morning. Yet climbing out of bed and going across to extinguish the set was just enough to keep him awake for any subsequent hour.

When finally he had nevertheless cranked up sufficient courage to undertake the mission, at about one
A.M.
, had already swung his feet down onto the bedside rug, the late-late movie came on, starring Jack Buxton.

CHAPTER 18

R
EINHART WAS HALF ASLEEP
when he answered the phone.

“Carl? You’re not still in bed?”

He covered the instrument as he cleared his throat. “In fact I am, Grace.” Only in recent years would he have had the nerve to make that sort of admission. When younger he would have denied the charge had it been made at five
A.M.
He squinted at the electric alarm clock on the bedside table. “It’s hardly seven thirty.”

He had stayed awake last night for the entire Buxton film, for once not the kind of action movie with which the man was usually associated, but a romantic comedy, probably the only one he ever made. It wasn’t bad: a kind of hygienic bedroom-farce-cum-mistaken-identity caper, co-starring a cream-faced, retroussé, wry but cheery young actress (who had never been seen again) and featuring a supporting cast of benevolent zanies, the inordinate Slavic concert pianist, the stuttering maitre d’hôtel, the effeminate hotel clerk, and the fluttering middle-aged lady wearing a hat and, for some unexplained reason, speaking in an English accent. Movies were better then.

Grace was saying something. Reinhart came back on the line and overrode her voice. “I’m glad you called finally, Grace. I’ve been trying to get hold of you for several days. First, the TV show went well, I thought. At least so the studio people told me.” She tried to recapture his ear at this point, but he said imperiously: “No. Let me finish. Then I found a little café up in the country that serves an extraordinary chili con carne, homemade, made in fact on the premises. I think that Epicon should maybe consider it as a product to can and sell to the public. It’s a different concept of the dish from the other canned versions you can buy—your own Pancho Villa brand, for example. And this is an example of the kind of thing that I think Epicon should try to go in the direction of, whether or not this chili works out: namely, the interesting and, if possible, unique product that would deserve the name of gourmet, instead of the line of more or less fake stuff offered at present.”

Grace cried: “Carl! I think you were just pretending to sleep just now, weren’t you, you sly dog? You’ve got the jump on me.” But she seemed in a good mood: perhaps Winona had trained her to acquire a taste for a certain amount of bullying from anyone named Reinhart. “Listen for a moment, please! The
Eye Opener
folks are looking for you.”

“You mean the TV show?”

“Sure! This is a comedy of errors. You’re not listed in the book—”

“That’s because of Winona,” said Reinhart. “It’s her phone, really, not mine.”

“And that wouldn’t have mattered ordinarily, because they could have called me for the number, but in point of fact I was laid up for a day or so and not in the kind of communication with the office that I usually maintain.”