Vanish in an Instant (22 page)

“Good night.”

He walked out the door and down the hall. He didn't look back but he knew she was watching him. He could feel her eyes on the back of his neck, cold and painful as the touch of ice.

23

Alice was
waiting for him in his car, a black scarf covering her bright hair, so that he didn't see her until he opened the door.

“Hello,” Meecham said.

“Hello.”

“Going anywhere?”

“Anywhere at all,” she said. “Wherever you go.”

“All right.” He let the car coast down the driveway to the street. He felt an intense activity inside his body, like hun­dreds of wheels turning in all directions. He was almost afraid to speak because of what the wheels might do to his voice. But when he finally spoke he sounded quite calm and detached. “I'm going home.”

“Then that's where I'll go too.”

“Maybe you'd better not.”

“I'm twenty-three,” she said with naive pride, as if twenty-three was a very special age that conferred great wisdom and rightness on its wearer.

“I was twenty-three once too,” Meecham said, “along with a lot of other people. I often made mistakes.”

“I won't.”

The traffic in the center of town was congested with cars that slid ghostlike along the streets, and students bundled like mummies against the cold. The bell tower was striking 9:15 when Meecham stopped the car in front of a small white duplex.

Hand in hand, they walked across the unshoveled side­walk and up the porch steps of the right side of the du­plex. A card above the doorbell said Eric Meecham. Two bottles of milk stood in a drift of snow outside the door. The milk had frozen and grown out of the tops of the bot­tles like strange white fungus that springs up overnight after a summer rain.

“I guess I forgot to bring in the milk,” Meecham said.

“Does it always do that in the winter?”

“When it's very cold.”

“It looks funny. I'll have to get used to a lot of different things, won't I, Meecham?”

“Yes.” He tried to unlock the door but the key stuck and wouldn't move. He made three attempts before the door finally opened and a warm draft of air swept out to meet them like a friendly hostess.

Meecham turned on the hall light. “It's not very clean, I guess. It looks clean enough to me, but to a woman . . .”

“It's
very
clean.”

“Is it?”

“I don't see how it could be any cleaner, really. I . . . Oh,
Meecham.
Frozen milk and the place being clean—what does anything
matter
?”

He untied the scarf that was knotted under her chin and it fell soft and unnoticed to the floor like a leaf.

“You're beautiful, Alice.”

“Oh, I
hope
so. I couldn't live if you didn't like the way I looked.”

She was clinging to him with all her strength, like a vine that had been growing alone and whose seeking tendrils had at last touched a tree. He held her tightly in his arms and kissed her, and the wheels inside him began to move with such furious speed that their noise whirred and pounded in his ears. When the telephone rang he hardly recognized it at first as a new and separate sound, but its sharp insistence gradually penetrated his mind like a pain.

Alice stirred in his arms and shook her head as if to shake off the intrusion. “I guess—that's the phone.”

“Let it ring,” he said.

“Do other women call you very often?”

“Sometimes.”

The telephone continued to ring, five, six, seven times.

“You could answer,” she said, “and then if it's another woman tell her you're very busy and you'll be busy for a long time.”

“How long?”

“Years. Forever.”

“All right.” He picked up the phone from the hall table. His hands were shaking and his knees felt weak. “Hello.”

“Is that you, Mr. Meecham?”

“Yes.”

“This is me, Victor Garino. You remember?”

“Of course. Where are you?”

“Here at home, in Kincaid. I've been trying to reach you ever since before supper. Mama and me, we're having a bad time with Mrs. Loftus. It's about the money.”

“What money?”

“The rest of Earl's seven hundred dollars. You shouldn't have sent it to her, Mr. Meecham.”

Meecham felt the inside breast pocket of his coat. The envelope containing the rest of Loftus' money was still there.

“She's going wild,” Garino said. “Buying not just liquor but everything, everything she sees. Records, dozens of rec­ords, and nothing to play them on. And a dress for Mama, a great big dress so big Mama could get into it twice. And for me, a new hat and a lamp and a case of wine, a whole case . . .”

“What do you think I can do about it?” Meecham said.

“You must come and take the money back again, what's left of it. I asked her to let me keep it for her and she said no, if I kept it she'd never see more than a dollar at a time like in the old days when Birdie gave her an allowance. I have no right to take the money from her. But you have, Mr. Meecham. You sent it to her and you can take it back again. That would be lawful, wouldn't it?”

“No, it wouldn't, because I didn't send her any money.”

There was a silence at the other end of the line. Then Garino's voice again, talking not into the telephone but to someone beside him. “He says he didn't send it, Mama.”

“He must have. Where else would she . . .?”

“She borrowed it, maybe.”

“Who from? Who'd lend her money?”

“She wouldn't steal.”

Then there was another silence, and Mrs. Garino said in a barely audible voice, “I never leave my purse around anymore.”

Meecham spoke sharply into the phone: “Garino?”

“I'm here, Mr. Meecham. I was talking to Mama. She says to tell you we're very sorry we bothered you, and—and what else, Mama?”

“Merry Christmas,” Mrs. Garino said.

“Oh yes, and a merry Christmas,” Garino said gravely.

“Wait a minute, Garino.”

“I am embarrassed, making such a big mistake, think­ing you sent the ...”

“Forget it. Is Mrs. Loftus home now?”

“Yes.”

“Keep her there.”

“By this time she is too drunk to go out anyway.”

“I want to talk to her,” Meecham said. “It's very im­portant. I can leave right away and I should be there in a little over an hour.”

He put the phone down and turned to Alice. She was smiling at him, but not very convincingly.

“You left me behind once tonight,” she said. “I don't want to be left behind again.”

“Do you like long winter drives in the country?”

“Very much.”

“Sure?”

“I adore them.” She reached down slowly, bending at the knees, and picked up her scarf from the floor. She said, without rising, “I could sit right down here and bawl.”

“Please don't.” He pulled her gently to her feet. “Re­member, you're twenty-three.”

“You're laughing at me.”

“No. Here, I'll put on your scarf for you. Will you let me?”

“I guess.” She watched him as he tied the scarf awk­wardly under her chin. “Meecham, do we
have
to go?”

“We have to.” He switched off the hall light and for a moment they stood in the dark facing each other but not touching. “You're not angry?”

“No.” She shook her head, rather sadly. “But I don't think I'm twenty-three any more. I think I'm older.”

24

The lights
in
the Garinos' basement apartment were on. From the sidewalk Meecham and Alice could see right into the kitchen. Mrs. Garino was sitting alone at a big linoleum-covered table, motionless, as if she was listening for a sound or waiting for something to happen.

Garino answered the door. He had a sleeping kitten nestled in the crook of his arm.

“You arrived fast, Mr. Meecham.”

“Yes. Miss Dwyer, Mr. Garino. Miss Dwyer is my fian­cée. She came along for the ride.”

“Come in, come in.” Garino stepped back to let them in, and at the movement the kitten awoke and began sheath­ing and unsheathing its claws against the rough wool of Garino's sweater coat. In and out, the claws moved like iri­descent needles being thrust in and out of tiny pink plush cushions. “I will get my keys.”

“I could hold the kitten for you,” Alice said shyly.

“Ah, you like kittens, eh?”

“I love them.”

“This one, he is the littlest. He is always the last to eat, and when he sleeps he is always at the bottom of the pile, so I spoil him a little to make up for this.” Alice sat down in an old wicker rocking chair and Garino put the indig­nant kitten on her lap. “I will go and tell Mama to fix some coffee.”

“I already put it on,” Mrs. Garino said from the kitchen, sounding rather angry that anyone should have to remind her to make coffee.

“Come out here for a minute, Mama.”

“I'm not dressed for company.” But she came to the door anyway, smoothing her skirt down over her hips. “We're upset around here today. I didn't have time to fuss with clothes.”

Meecham introduced the two women and they eyed each other carefully from an ambush of smiles before they stepped out into the open.

“She can stay down here with me,” Mrs. Garino said to her husband. “She wouldn't want to go up there to that . . .”

“Mama.”

“How many times a day do you have to say
Mama
to me like that? You might as well be honest and say
shut up
.”

“That wouldn't be so polite,” Garino answered blandly. The two men went out into the hall and Garino closed the door.

“Is she still in her apartment?” Meecham said.

“Yes, I went up to check fifteen minutes ago. She is drunk, naturally, but not as bad as I expected. I heard her through the door walking around talking to herself.”

“Does she know that Earl's dead?”

“I couldn't tell her. She was so happy today, spending that money, how could I spoil it? It's a long time since she had money to spend and it went to her head. When you never have more than a dollar, a hundred dollars seems like it would last forever.”

“If my guess is right, there's a lot more than a hundred dollars involved.”

“Then you know how she got the money?”

“I don't know how she got it,” Meecham said. “But I know where it came from originally.”

“She didn't steal it, though?”

“No.”

“I didn't think so.” But he sounded relieved.

The door of Mrs. Loftus' apartment was locked. Though Garino had the key to it in his hand, he knocked once, and then again, before using it.

The old lady was sitting sideways on the battered daven­port, her feet up and ankles crossed, her back to the door. She was smoking a cigarette through a long silver holder, her fingers elegantly extended.

She spoke without moving her head. “Don't I ever get any privacy anymore?”

Garino turned a little white. “I asked you please not to smoke when you're drinking.”

“You're a butterinski, Victor. That's what we used to call people like you in my day. What do you want now?”

“I brought someone to see you.”

“I've already seen someone.” She flicked the ashes off her cigarette in the general direction of an ash tray. Some of the ashes spilled on the floor and the rest on her dress. Meecham noticed that the dress already had two or three scorch marks on it though it looked brand new. Everything she wore looked brand new—the magenta-colored dress with a purple velvet flower at the waist, sheer black stock­ings, ankle-strap suede pumps and a hat made of sleek black feathers. Nothing fitted her. The hat perched on her head like a reluctant raven, the stockings hung in pleats on her legs, and the full skirt of the dress stuck out from her fleshless hips like a ballerina's tutu.

The room smelled of whisky and of smoke, more acrid than cigarette smoke. Meecham saw then that the old lady had been burning something in the grate. The center of the fire had burned down to a crust of gray and black ash, but around the perimeter some material was still smol­dering.

“I didn't know you were going out,” Garino said.

She bent her head toward him, slowly, as if to avoid frightening the raven on her head. “I am not going out, Victor.”

“I wish you wouldn't.”

“I said…”

“It's very cold and late, and besides, the bars will be closed pretty soon.”

The old lady's eyes flickered. “Why, I wouldn't
dream
of going out on a night like this.”

“Promise.”

“It never even occurred to me to go out on a night like this. As a matter of fact, I was about to retire when I de­cided to try on my new clothes.”

“It's a pretty dress.”

“You really like it? It doesn't fit, but then I didn't buy it for
fit
. I bought it,” she added in a very reasonable tone of voice, “for the color. It's such a cheerful color it makes me feel alive.”

“Ella can maybe take it in at the seams for you.”

She stared at him coldly. “Then you don't really like it, after all.”

“Yes, I do. I was only. . .”

“You have no right to force your way into my home and inflict your opinions about clothes on me, Mr. Garino.”

“You'd better go to bed before . . .” Garino hesitated, looking down at his hands.

“Before
what
, Mr. Garino?”

“Before Ella has to put you to bed.”

She thought this over quietly for a moment. Then she said with an air of triumph, “I can't go to bed. I've got company.” She pointed the cigarette holder at Meecham. The cigarette had burned down to the end and gone out. “Who are you, company?”

Meecham repeated his name.

“Well, sit down, sit down some place and we'll all have a cozy drink together. You too, Victor.”

“No, I don't want one, thank you,” Garino said.

“You needn't pretend, in front of me, that you don't drink. I happen to know that you drink in secret all the time. A lot of people do. Billions. Pour some of us billions a drink, Victor.”

Garino's dark skin showed an angry streak of purple across his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose. “You can wait for a while.”

“I can't wait. I need the energy. Whisky is a body fuel. I read that in the newspaper. There's no reason why I can't have some body fuel.”

“You intend to go out, don't you?” Garino said. “You weren't trying on clothes.”

“Why, of all the
absurb
ideas!”

“Where were you going?”

“Give me a drink.”

“Where were you going?”

“You dirty foreigner.”

Garino's eyes glittered like an oil sludge over moving water. “Watch what you say. I am your only friend.”

“Oh no, you're not. I have lots of friends.”

Meecham sat down facing her. The scarred and rickety coffee table seemed like a precarious bridge between them that must be crossed carefully, one step at a time.

“Who are they?” he said.

“Who are they is none of your business. I don't go around to other people saying
who are they, who are they
all the time.”

“Did your friends give you any money?”

She raised her head high and tried to look haughty. “I wouldn't dream of accepting charity. I'm a woman of in­dependent means.”

“I realize that, of course,” Meecham said. “But you wouldn't have any objection to accepting money that came from Earl. It did come from Earl?”

“Don't bother me. I'm tired. I need some body fuel.”

“All right.” Meecham nodded at Garino, and Garino went, silent and tight-lipped, into the kitchen. When he returned he was carrying a plastic tumbler filled to the brim with whisky.

Mrs. Loftus drank it in three gulps. “That newspaper was right. It is a fuel. Why, I feel warmer already.”

Meecham said, “Earl is dead, Mrs. Loftus.”

The old lady began to tremble, and Meecham thought for a moment that she was going to react violently to the news. But too many nerves of communication had been cut between her and the outside world. Pain was dulled and pleasure remote.

“Did you hear me, Mrs. Loftus?”

“I don't want to hear anything. You leave me alone.”

“Before he died he had over six thousand dollars,” Meecham said. “How much of that did you get?”

“I've forgotten his face. He was nice-looking, but I've
forgotten
. . . . I can't picture it.”

“Who sent money to you? Or brought it to you?”

Though her mouth worked, she didn't speak for a moment, and when she did it wasn't an answer to Meecham's questions but to questions that rose within her like smoke from a forgotten fire. “Such a hard life, a ter­rible life. Earl is lucky. I wasn't a good mother to him. Something happened to me. What was it? I don't re­member. Something happened. I think I was ill and too tired to care.”

Meecham recalled the piercing words Loftus had used about her:
One drink and she was a drunk. She'd been a drunk for thirty years and didn't find it out until then. For her the world vanished in that instant. She has never seen it since. She never will again.

“Earl didn't understand,” she said in a whisper. “He wrote cruel things to me sometimes, said I broke my prom­ises, said I didn't
try
hard enough. I burned all his letters. Birdie told me to.”

“Who told you?”

“Birdie did. Tonight. I was sitting here and suddenly in comes Birdie through that door like a ghost.” She glanced at the locked door expectantly as if she wanted to conjure up the ghost again, a friendly ghost more real than the shadows she lived among.

“Please, Mrs. Loftus,” Meecham said sharply. “Take it easy now. Tell me . . .”

“Forget the past, Birdie said, burn it all up. And she's right. From now on things are going to be different. I'm going away, I'm going to start a new life. Birdie says it's bad for me living here like this from hand to mouth in a town full of gossip.”
Birdie said and Birdie says
. . . The words seemed to hypnotize her like a new religion with a special chant. “Birdie says I ought to live in the country, in a big house with lots of trees and flowers around and dogs in the yard.”

Meecham leaned toward her across the table trying to focus her attention. “Birdie was here tonight?”

“I don't think I'm supposed to tell you that. She doesn't want Victor to know, doesn't like people who snoop.”

“I'm not snooping. But you must be making a mistake, Mrs. Loftus. It couldn't have been Birdie.”

“I know Birdie. I recognized her right off, she didn't have to open her mouth.”

“Earl claimed she was killed in an accident out West.”

She didn't seem surprised. “Sometimes Earl told little fibs.”

“This was more than a little fib. If he lied about her death, it means that he was deliberately trying to prevent anyone from finding her.”

“Well, I found her without even looking. She's alive, all right. Showing her age, I must say,” Mrs. Loftus added slyly. “Oh, yes, she's gotten older. And she's had a few knocks in the process, so now she understands better about other people with troubles, like me. She's different, Birdie is. She says I'm different too.” She tilted her head at Garino. “You think I am, Victor?”

“Ah—yes.” Garino looked sick. “Very different.”

“You don't mean that
nice
, do you?” she said slowly.

“I mean it nice.”

“At least I haven't gotten stout. So many older women get stout.”

Not without food, Meecham thought. “Birdie gave you money?”

“She sent it to me. It came this morning in the mail, a check with a little note. Two hundred dollars.”

“And then?”