The Ninth Wave (32 page)

"Trouble was that nobody else could hear it. All the professors tried
to catch it. None of them could hear it. But I could. Every time I used
the stethoscope I could hear it."
"Can you hear it now?" Mike said.
Morrie looked shyly at Mike.
"Yes, I can hear it now," he said. "The only cure for systolic splash
is complete rest. So I came home and decided to rest. I got in bed and
I'll stay here until I die or the systolic splash disappears. It's as
simple as that."
"You'll stay here until you die," Mike said. He reached over and
took one earplug out of Morrie's ear so that Morrie could hear him
distinctly. "It's simple. Everyone tells you that you don't have systolic
splash. You listen and hear it. Obviously you're only going to accept
the evidence of your own ears. And you'll hear the sound of the splash
the rest of your life."
"You're pretty logical and clever, Mr. Freesmith," Morrie said. There was
no irony in his voice. "You're probably right. After a while a person gets
some very weird notions. For example, at medical school they tell you that
the heart is a firm strong piece of muscle. If I want to reassure myself
I can open a medical book and look at the diagram of a heart. But sitting
here, listening to my heart, I know that it's a big quivering bag full
of blood. It is covered with a thin glistening layer of material. Oh,
damn is it thin. I can feel the blood pushing against it, trying to
burst out. And it's much bigger than they told me in medical school. It
almost fills your whole chest. A huge delicate bag that squeezes softly
and sends the blood out through all the arteries. And almost anything
can break the bag of your heart, I don't want to do anything that will
injure my heart . . . Nothing, understand? Really, nothing."
Mike looked at Georgia. She was watching him. She was tense, waiting
for judgment. Then she smiled at something she saw in his face. They
looked down at the huge sprawling loose body in the bed. Mike knew they
were thinking the same thing: of how long it had been since the body
had been used, how the muscles must have become shrunken and thin and
encased in fat. They thought of how carefully the body moved, anxious
not to disturb the rhythm of the big pulsing membrane of blood that
rested in the chest. The long careful thought-out avoidance of strain
and effort. And the eating of ham sandwiches and beer and potato chips
and chopped chicken liver and rich spicy foods that had gone into the
production of the soft rich fat.
Then Morrie looked up at them and smiled and Mike felt that he knew
exactly what they were thinking.
"I know what would get you out of bed," Mike said and he laughed. "If
the Blenner family went absolutely broke, if you couldn't afford this
house and twenty-four-hour a day nurse service and expensive doctors,
then it would be simple. You'd have to get out of bed and start to work."
Morrie laughed. His face wrinkled with delight.
"You're very right, Freesmith," he said~ "If we went broke I'd have to
get out of bed. But we aren't going broke. Not even close to it." He
swung open a low cabinet beside his bed. It held a row of files. "There
are the key files on all the Blenner enterprises. Right there. I keep an
eye on them. I watch everything. For example, the matter Father discussed
with you was my idea. I worked it up; did all the research, everything."
"Did you tell him to see me?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"It's really very simple. I came to the conclusion that the only sure
investment in the future would be something which was supported by the
government. I decided on agricultural land. It was a long complicated
analysis and I won't bore you with the details. But once that was decided
then the problem was to find some person who could do something about the
political picture, could make sure that politics wouldn't endanger the
investment. That called for a person who knew something about politics,
could exercise enough control and still wasn't committed to someone else
or to a political party. It narrowed down to you. You've got a candidate,
you're not committed to a political party and you're not in politics
for political reasons."
"Why do you think I'm interested in politics?" Mike asked.
"I don't know. It doesn't matter. I just had to be sure you weren't
committed already. I don't care what else is involved. We just had
to make sure we didn't have a reformer or do-gooder or fanatic in the
political end of the job."
"You're a pretty logical person yourself, Mr. Blenner," Mike said.
"Thank you," Morrie said. He smiled at Mike and Georgia laughed with
pleasure.
"What do you think about the farm land we looked over?" Mike said.
"Georgia has told you all about it."
"You did very well," Morrie said and his voice lost the shy, half-playful
quality and became crisp. His body shifted, the fat rolled under the
sheets and somehow he was sitting erect. "I was worried at first because
you didn't take along an expert, but you were right. I've had everything
checked out. That desert land down around Rasor is the best. It's cheap
and they say it will grow almost anything if you can get water into it."
"That's the land we liked the best," Georgia said excitedly. "There's
nothing there now, Morrie. Not a thing. Just a strip of road and some
cactus. With water . . . "
"Can we get the water in?" Morrie broke in and said.
"That depends on a lot of things," Mike said.
"But the most important thing is whether or not Cromwell becomes
governor," Morrie said. There was no question in his voice.
"That's right."
"You can manage that," Mottie said. "The thing you need most is money.
We'll give you that." He hesitated and then looked squarely at Mike.
"Maybe you'd show Georgia the political side of it some day? How you see
the campaign, the people, the issues . . . all of that. Then she could
tell me." Mike shrugged.
"Whenever she wants," he said. "It's not very complicated. I'm not running
it like an ordinary campaign. I can explain it to her in an afternoon."
Morrie nodded and suddenly his face looked bored. He picked up the
stethoscope and put the plugs in his ear. He probed his chest with the
diaphragm, his mouth opened expectantly. Mike and Georgia stood up and
left the room.
"I've never heard anyone talk to him like that before," she said when
they were in the hallway. "I was scared for a minute, but he liked you."
"What were you scared of?"
"I'm not sure. That he'd have an attack or something. Maybe that his
heart couldn't stand it."
Mike laughed.
"He could stand that and a lot more," he said. There's nothing wrong
with his heart."
Georgia looked at him and then away. She did not speak until they were
out in the sun again.
"Would you like to drive down to the beach and have a drink?" she said.
"Sometimes I take a thermos of martinis and go down to Santa Monica or
up toward Malibu."
"O.K. Let's go," Mike said.
When they went by the swimming pool, the old man turned slowly over
onto his belly without opening his eyes. He left a perfect outline of
his body in sweat on the warm concrete.
They drove out Wilshire and the sleekness of the boulevard ended when
they got to Santa Monica. The chinchilla ranches, the clothing stores,
the hamburger stands, the enchilada restaurants began. Then suddenly
they were at the Palisades and the city ended. The road cut down the
face of the Palisades in a sharp slanting angle and all they could see
was the Pacific and the sky and the long black strip of the Coast Highway.
They drove for ten miles along the coast and then Georgia told him to
stop. He parked by a big rock that reached across the beach and into
the water. Steps had been cut down the side of the rock and they walked
down and out onto the sand. The sand was clean and tidewashed. There
was a thin crisp layer of sand across the surface and their feet broke
through into the cooler sand beneath. They put a blanket beside the rock
and sat down. Mike opened the thermos and poured out two cups of martinis.
Behind them they could still hear the shrill whine of tires on the
highway, but all they could see was the ocean and sand. Far out to sea
a couple of freighters were moving sluggishly. Close to shore a fishing
boat was motionless; behind the boat a round saclike shadow floated in
the water and the net was held up by an ellipse of cork floats. In the
sky two jet planes were moving. They were visible as two tiny triangles
at the point of a long, perfect, growing vapor trail.
"You don't spend much time with your wife," Georgia said. "Does she mind?"
"I don't think so," Mike said. "She never says anything about it. She's
busy with the two kids, clubs, clothes . . . that sort of thing."
Mike's voice was not apologetic or protective. He looked at her curiously;
as if she had mentioned a subject he had never thought of.
"I like the beach here," Georgia said suddenly. "Part of the reasbn
I like it is because you look out and see the big ocean and the sky,
yet just behind you, just a few yards away, is the city. Here the beach
means something; it's a boundary; a limit. Once I saw the beach up at
Big Sur. It was all lonely and desolate. I didn't like it. Here the
beach is exciting."
Mike leaned back against the rock. It was getting dark and the sand was
cooling. The fishing boat pulled in its net and he thought that he could
see the silvery bodies of the fish pour over the side. The two jets had
moved to the edge of the sky and just at the line of blackness they
seemed to come together; to merge into one heavy and beautiful-vapor
trail. The waves came higher on the beach, began to break around the
base of the rock.
They sat quietly, not talking, and when they heard the voice it came as
a surprise.
"Whatcha doing buddy, trying to pecker the girl?" the voice said. It
was a mocking voice, very loud and firm.
Mike pulled his head back and sat up. Four boys were standing in a
semicircle behind them. They were all about twenty years old, but the
one that spoke was older than the others. He was wearing a soft yellow
flannel jacket and gabardine pants. The cuffs were tucked into shiny black
Wellington boots. The boy's hair was cut long on the sides and brushed
back so that his head looked long and lean, like an Indian's. His hair
was very short on top. He had strong hands and muscular shoulders.
"I asked you, mister, if you were trying to pecker this poor girl here
in daylight," the boy said. The other boys smiled.
One of them was swinging a toy baseball bat in his hand. It was about
twenty inches long and it hung from his wrist by a silver chain.
"He could be arrested for exhibitionism," another boy said. He pronounced
the word slowly; with elegance.
Mike looked at them. The boys all looked the same, black hair, Wellington
boots, flannel jackets. "Imagine being arrested for exhibitionism and
sent up to City Hall. It's not worth it, mister. You should're taken
the babe to a motel. Here, maybe I can loan you the money?"
The boy reached in his pocket and jerked his hand around and his eyes
opened in mock surprise. The other boys laughed. The boy took his hand
out and it was empty.
"What do you want?" Mike asked. "If you don't want anything, shove off."
"Oh, gee, mister, don't scare us like that," the boy in the yellow
jacket said. "We're friendly boys. Just rat-rat-racketing along in our
car . . . taking a look at places like this to keep an eye on public
morals. Just cruising, that's all we're doing."
"The girl's morals are all right," Mike said. "You can leave now. She's
safe."
The boy in the yellow jacket squatted down comfortably on his heels. He
smiled at Mike. The other boy, who had reached in his pocket, walked
over to the thermos bottle. His eyes opened wide as he sniffed the cork.
"Why, George, I do declare they were drinking," he said. "This bottle
smells like liquor. Imagine him bringing liquor along and giving it to
the poor girl. The rascal."
"Put on your coat, Georgia," Mike said. "We're going.''
He stood up. Before Georgia could stand up one of the other boys reached
into his pants and took out another toy baseball bat. The boy in the
yellow jacket looked up and grinned.
"Now don't be in a hurry. Just because we came," he said. "You were
planning something with the girl before we came. We don't want that
blanket and all that good liquor to go to waste. Why don't you just go
ahead and keep up the good work?" The boy spoke precisely and slowly,
almost solemnly. But his tongue flicked at the corner of his mouth.
Mike stood still. He looked down and Georgia was staring at the boy.
"Don't mind us," the boy went on. "We'll sort of stand guard. You just
go ahead and skin her clothes off and you can pecker her right here on
the beach. Then you'll save yourself the motel money and we'll make sure
you have privacy."
The boys, unconsciously, all moved forward a step. The boys swung their
bats. They looked down at Georgia.
"If you don't we'll persuade you," one of the other boys said. His voice
was choked.
The boy in the yellow jacket jerked his head around.
"Shut up, Eddie," he said. "Don't be rude to the man. He appreciates
the help we're giving. Why don't you just start in, mister? Just as
if we weren't here. Give her a kiss and get her hot and. then skin her
clothes off. A piece at a time. Her sweater and her skirt and then her
brassiere . . . oh gosh I forgot girls wear slips, don't they. I'm sorry."
"Listen, buddy, you're getting yourself in trouble," Mike said. His
voice was flat and steady. "Why don't you just take your boys and clear
off the beach?"
"Oh, gosh, you've got it all wrong, mister," the boy said. "We want to
help you. You've probably been trying to get into that girl for a long
time now. We're going to help you out."
"I won't ask you again," Mike said. "Get off the beach."
The boy stayed squatting for a second more. Then he stood up and as he did
his face changed. The humorous joking look left his face. He was suddenly,
instantaneously, angry and, somehow, it made him look much younger.
"Ya tellin' us to shove eh?" he said. "You and everybody, always tellin'
us to shove. Off the beach, off the road, off the Palladium dance floor,
off the school grounds, off the sidewalk. Always get off, shove! Awright,
big tough guy. Cops ain't around to make us do it. So you do what we
say or we'll pound the living piss out of ya. See?" The boy's language
changed; the elegance and precision peeled off as if he had been speaking
in an artificial voice. "Take 'er clothes off. Take yours off. Then
screw her."