The Expendable Man (19 page)

He'd have to be late. He closed the door to the corridor. He wasn't going to get back to the hospital tomorrow. Not with the police again calling him. He could no longer delay writing to the Dean. The Dean had encouraged him since undergraduate days. He'd sponsored Hugh in Med School, been his mentor in good times and bad. If he could not be trusted with this trouble, whatever happened in the critical days ahead, there was no hope for Hugh's future. Hugh had to trust him.

There was paper in the desk, and envelopes; his grandfather used the room as a library when there were no guests in the house. The letter didn't take too long, he'd been over the story so often. The only personal note he permitted was his hope for an extension of leave. Although he knew the Dean would not betray his confidence, he felt impelled to add the warning: “My family knows nothing at all about this. I hope they will never have to know.”

He sealed the letter and addressed it. If he got it off special delivery, it would be delivered to the university in the morning. He put it into his jacket pocket and, unbuttoning his shirt as he moved, went to the head of the stairs. He called down, “Hey, Mother. Please call Ellen I'll be a little late.” He didn't wait for her response. He stopped at the bathroom on his way back and started the shower. While he stripped, bathed, and dressed, he refused thought. He transferred the necessary billfold, empty of all but identification, his car keys and addenda. At the last moment, he remembered the crumpled memo and shoved it into his pocket. It was possible that his grandmother or his mother might come upon it and identify the number.

He ran down the stairs to where they waited for him. His mother said, “Ellen said it was all right.”

“Thanks. I'll see you tomorrow, Mother. With my dirty laundry.” It was a weekend joke. He was half out the door when he called, “Bye, Gram, Gramps. Forgive the dash.”

His grandmother snipped, “Ah, love!”

If it were only that. Not this suspended sword over his head. He drove the short distance to the airport, where there were stamp machines. After he'd posted the letter, he returned over 24th Street to Van Buren. It wasn't far to the motel. Ellen was ready, in white, a bright pink cashmere about her shoulders.

Hugh apologized, “I couldn't make it any faster. Should we call Houston that we'll be late?”

She was unperturbed. “I've already called.”

She thought of everything, a well-ordered girl.

“Skye had just come in himself. He said not to hurry.” This soon it was Skye. And doubtless Ellen. “Shall we go?”

Not until she'd lifted a small waterproof bag, flowered in matching pink and white, did he realize he'd forgotten his bathing trunks. And wondered if it had been a subconscious rejection of swimming in Houston's pool. Counter-bigotry. It wasn't fair to Houston. The lawyer was civilized, that had been apparent in the meeting today. He hadn't asked them to swim as a special treat to the deprived. He had accepted them as his own class and had issued the same invitation he would to such. It was too late for Hugh to change his mind now.

The heat of the day was still heavy over the town. Because of the crumpled slip of paper, a nettle in his pocket, he didn't turn off to cut through the Papago Pass, where the first breeze of evening might be stirring. He would skirt the town of Scottsdale as far as was possible; by now there could be a pickup order out for him, with the big white car for identification. Skirting meant the death road; he wasn't certain of locating Houston's home by way of Camelback. But having forced himself to take the road last night, he was no longer fearful of it. As he turned there, Ellen marked the signpost and became silent.

Last night it had been too dark to see how little the Indian School Road had been changed by time. He drove quite slowly; it wasn't a road for speed, it was no more than a winding, country lane. The canal wasn't visible behind the high banks. Opposite was the old canopy of leafy trees.

They came to the gates of the once serene acres of Brown-moor. Hugh remembered, from years ago, a Sunday afternoon drive with the family; remembered with a pang the dappled walks, the deep shade of the tall trees, the voices of the school-girls. Now the grounds stood sad and overgrown and shabby, waiting the final destruction of subdivision. The stables were already gone. At one time, his grandfather had told him on that long-ago day, every variety of native tree and plant had been perpetuated here. It hurt to think that the poison of uncontrolled development, the money greed, if unchecked, would soon reduce not only this oasis but the whole of the beautiful desert valley to the sterility of the tract.

As they followed the road, past a remembered row of neat bungalows with their grass aprons, there was no way to know at what spot Iris' body had been found. All traces of police and sheriff and laboratory activity had been removed. She wouldn't have been visible from the road. Whoever had flung her away had not known how thoroughly the canals were patrolled by the Zanjaros.

In a matter of minutes they were in the town, at the intersection of Scottsdale Road. If it hadn't been for the heavy pattern of traffic lights, and the widened pavement, it might still be yesterday when there was no evil in his stars. He turned north with the lights and drove as far as Lincoln, then cut back to Tatum. It led to the other side of the mountain where the country was molded of golden sand in the setting sun. The homes lay apart from each other, chameleon blurs against the desert earth and sky. Mockingbird Lane wandered north and south and east and west. He followed its contours to the mailbox where HOUSTON was painted in tall letters.

The house was perhaps a quarter mile from the road, long and low, and from the front landscaped only with what was native to the barren land. Saguaro and ocotillo and yucca, and rose-black volcanic rocks. A cedar rail fence surrounded the property. Hugh got out, opened the gate, and after Ellen had driven through, relatched it. He took the wheel again, following the sandy burro path to the house. Ellen lifted the bronze knocker, but before it fell, the door was opened by Houston himself. His smile at Ellen was a welcome untouched by the rigidity of the noon meeting. He was in a terry robe and zoris; he carried a high-ball glass.

“You'll excuse me for not waiting for you.” He divided the smile with Hugh. “I was too damned hot.” He closed the door after them and called, “Marcia?” giving the name the Spanish pronunciation.

From what must have been a kitchen wing, a middle-aged Mexican woman emerged. She was wiping her hands on her white apron.

“Marcia, this is Miss Hamilton. And Dr. Densmore. Marcia will show you where to change, Ellen.” He explained, “My wife and daughter are on the Continent. I'm hoping to join them in June if I can ever clear my calendar.” As Ellen followed Marcia into yet another wing, Houston said, “Hugh, you come with me.” He didn't comment on using first names, he made it natural.

“I decided not to swim,” Hugh told him.

Houston made no comment which might have induced an explanation, he merely said, “You'll have a drink then while we do?” and led across the huge Western living room to a lanai, and through it onto a patio. There was an outdoor fireplace where mammoth logs were already smoldering. A brazier hung from a spit over glowing coals, ready for the steaks. The long wrought-iron table was set only for the three, all at one end, a hurricane lamp at each place.

The patio was large but not too large to be uncomfortable. It was walled with whitewashed brick, against which the pink and red and snow of oleanders with their glistening dark leaves made a brilliant pattern. The tiled pool, lighted underwater to increase its cerulean blue, lay beyond the dining area.

Skye asked, “What will you drink?” There was no fancy bar, merely a white brick ledge where materials for mixing were set.

Hugh glanced over the bottles. “A light Scotch. I may need a clear head.” He took the piece of paper from his pocket. “This call came for me this afternoon. My grandfather took it. I haven't yet called back. It was too late when I received it, if I was to get here in time.”

Skye read the number and dismissed it. “Hack will be at home now. I'll ring him later. Don't worry about it.” He stuffed the memo in his pocket and took off his robe. In his black wool swimming trunks with his brown skin, he was an even finer figure of a man.

He had seen Ellen coming through the lanai before Hugh did. Hugh said quickly, “I didn't mention it to Ellen.” Skye's brief nod was acknowledgment.

She must have known from long experience the impact of her face and figure, for she wore both unselfconsciously. The enormous bright flowers of her suit seemed painted on her. She carried her towel over one shoulder and swung a plain white bathing cap from her forefinger.

Skye walked to meet her. There was an indefinable something which matched them as if they were meant to be a pair. Both were slim, long-limbed, sleek, expensive. Both were tanned, he darkly, she golden. Hugh watched them come together; he didn't hear what Skye said to her.

The first impact of seeing them thus together smote Hugh with the awful aloneness of a stranger in a strange place. He didn't belong where they were. He thrust away such megrims. He'd known from the beginning that Ellen wasn't for him. Nor was she for Skye Houston. This wasn't a social gathering.

He watched them go across to the pool, watched her cleave the air and water in one swift motion. At the splash, Skye seemed to emerge from his dream. He too ran to the tiled edge and shallow-dived into the water.

Hugh drank his Scotch slowly, admitting to himself his envy of them. They swam in long lazy strokes the length of the pool. They were arrows feathered from the high board. They floated with their laughter under the darkling sky and early yellow stars. And he could have held his own in the water with both of them. Being landlocked was his penance for envy.

The fireplace logs were blazing by now; they warmed away the first chill of the desert night. Marcia came and went, lighting the candles, bringing silver and china.

Ellen and Skye finally came out, glistening from the water. She wrapped herself in her towel and let her hair free of the cap before she sat down beside Hugh. “It was wonderful. You should have come in.”

Skye said, “Yes.” He put on his robe and poured drinks. “You'll have a fresh one, Hugh? Light.”

He agreed. There was dinner to come. If he had to see the police later, the alcohol would be dissipated. He couldn't make an obsession of remaining apart from the two.

Skye said, “I'll put on the steaks. They'll be ready to turn when we've had the drinks.” It seemed somehow out of character for him to preside over a cook-out but it made him more human. No one mentioned the case as they enjoyed the slow highballs. The talk was cabbages and kings. When the steaks were turned, Skye said, “They'll be ready by the time we're dressed. You'll excuse us for a few minutes, Hugh?”

Hugh said, “Of course,” and watched the two vanish into the house. As if it were their home and he the guest. He wondered what it would be like to have a house like this one. With Ellen. Perhaps by the time he could afford it, if ever such time came, it would be possible to build it wherever he wished. Even on Mockingbird Lane. But he wouldn't have Ellen to preside over it. An Ellen couldn't be kept waiting that long. He laughed silently at himself. By the time he had the house, she'd be marrying off her granddaughters.

Skye was the first to return; Marcia behind him brought the coffee container. She and Skye conferred at the brazier until Ellen appeared. This time Skye's smile for her was as if they'd known each other for years. “Your timing is perfect,” he complimented. “Now if you'll both come to the table, we can eat.”

He served the oversized plates. Marcia brought them to the table and she went away. There was little conversation while they dined. It was close to nine o'clock; the others were as hungry as Hugh was, it was a long time since noon. After eating they rolled chaises into the perimeter of the fireplace. In the flickering light, all of their faces were golden dark. The desert stars were brilliant in the black-blue sky overhead. It was too peaceful to prod with the sharp stick of Hugh's danger. But Skye hadn't forgotten the reason they were here.

He said, “Before I came home tonight, I talked to the marshal.”

Hugh spoke without rancor. “He doesn't believe my story.”

“Let's say he has a reasonable doubt of it. That's fair. On one side are the things in your favor, on the other the things against you. And some of them work both ways. It's in your favor that you're a doctor at UCLA. It's also against you that you're a doctor, a doctor knows how to abort.”

“A doctor knows how to abort. He doesn't bungle it.” He spoke with passion.

“He might. If he were in a hurry, without proper facilities. Or if he were doing it under pressure.”

“Or if he were a Negro doctor.” The words came out more harshly than Hugh intended.

Skye said, “It's in your favor that you're a Negro.”

The absurdity of the idea curled Hugh's lips.

“It happens to be true,” Skye stated. “In today's climate, no thinking man wants to turn a simple case into an international
cause célèbre
. Furthermore, if he's in politics, he can't risk being branded a bigot. Hackaberry's no different from any of the others. One of these days he's going to have to stand for re-election. So he's leaning over backwards.”

“I don't doubt what you say. It's true in a good many cities these days,” Hugh admitted. “But my color is also against me. If as a Negro I'm no longer the expendable scapegoat, I am a complication. You know the marshal would rather I was a white man.”

“He would,” Skye admitted freely. “He wouldn't have to walk on eggs. Possibly he'd be holding you right now as a material witness.”

Ellen said, “You must also admit, Skye, that if a reputable white doctor had given Iris a lift, there wouldn't be this under-current to it.”