Bullet Park (10 page)

“Oh, I can’t remember all the titles,” Nellie said. “We’re studying
all
of Camus.”

It was to Mrs. Hubbard’s credit that she did not pursue the subject. Tony got her an ashtray and Nailles looked narrowly at his beloved son and this stray. His manner towards her was manly and gentle. He didn’t at any point touch her but he looked at her in a way that was proprietory and intimate. He seemed contented. Nailles did not understand how, having debauched this youth, she had found the brass to confront his parents. Was she totally immoral? Did she think them totally immoral? But his strongest and strangest feeling, observing the boy’s air of mastery, was one of having been deposed, as if, in some ancient legend where men wore crowns and lived in round towers, the bastard prince, the usurper, was about to seize the throne. The sexual authority that Nailles imagined as springing from his marriage bed and flowing through all the rooms and halls of the house was challenged. There did not seem to be room for two men in this erotic kingdom. His feeling was not of a contest but of an inevitability. He wanted to take Nellie upstairs and prove to himself, like some old rooster, that the scepter was still his and that the young prince was busy with golden apples and other impuissant matters.

“How did you lose your husband, Mrs. Hubbard,” Nellie asked.

“I really can’t say,” said Mrs. Hubbard. “They don’t go in terribly much for detail. They simply announce that he was lost in action and that you are entitled to a pension. Oh, what a divine old dog,” she exclaimed as Tessie came into the room. “I adore setters. Daddy used to breed and show them.”

“Where was this,” Nailles asked.

“On the island,” said Mrs. Hubbard. “We had a largish place on the island until Daddy lost his pennies and I may say he lost them all.”

“Where did he show his dogs?”

“Mostly on the island. He showed one dog in New York—Aylshire Lassie—but he didn’t like the New York show.”

“Shall we go in to lunch,” asked Nellie.

“Could I use the amenities,” asked Mrs. Hubbard.

“The what?” said Nellie.

“The john,” said Mrs. Hubbard.

“Oh, of course,” said Nellie. “I’m sorry …”

Nailles carved the meat and absolutely nothing of any interest or significance was said until about halfway through the meal when Mrs. Hubbard complimented Nellie on her roast. “It’s so marvelous to have a joint for Sunday lunch,” she said. “My flat is very small, as are my means, and I never tackle a roast. Poor Tony had to make do with a hamburger last night.”

“Where was this,” Nellie asked.

“Emma cooked my supper last night,” Tony said.

“Then you didn’t spend the night at the Crutchmans’?”

“No, Mother,” Tony said.

Nellie saw it all; seemed to be looking at it. Would she rail at the stranger for having debauched her cleanly son? Bitch. Slut. Whore. Degenerate. Would she cry and leave the table? Tony was the only one then who looked at his mother and he was afraid she would. What would happen then? He would follow her up the stairs calling: “Mother, Mother, Mother.” Nailles would telephone for a taxi to take dirty Mrs. Hubbard away. Nellie, her lunch half finished, lighted a cigarette and said: “Let’s play I packed my grandmother’s trunk. We always used to play it when Tony was a boy and things weren’t going well.”

“Oh, let’s,” said Mrs. Hubbard.

“I packed my grandmother’s trunk,” said Nellie, “and into it I put a grand piano.”

“I packed my grandmother’s trunk,” said Nailles, “and into it I put a grand piano and an ashtray.”

“I packed my grandmother’s trunk,” said Mrs. Hubbard, “and into it I put a grand piano, an ashtray and a copy of Dylan Thomas.”

“I packed my grandmother’s trunk,” said Tony, “and into it I put a grand piano, an ashtray, a copy of Dylan Thomas and a football.”

“I packed my grandmother’s trunk,” said Nellie, “and into it I put a grand piano, an ashtray, a copy of Dylan Thomas, a football, and a handkerchief.”

“I packed my grandmother’s trunk,” said Nailles, “and
into it I put a grand piano, an ashtray, a copy of Dylan Thomas, a football, a handkerchief and a baseball bat …”

They got through lunch and when this was over Mrs. Hubbard asked to be taken to the station. She thanked Nailles and Nellie, got into her Chesterfield, went out the door and then returned saying: “Oops, I nearly forgot my bumbershoot.” Then she was gone.

Nellie cried. Nailles embraced her, saying: “Darling, darling, darling, darling.” She went upstairs and when Tony returned Nailles said that his mother was resting. “For God’s sake,” said Nailles, “please don’t ever do anything like that again.”

“I won’t, Daddy,” said Tony.

O
n the night but one before Tony was stricken with what Nailles insisted was mononucleosis, Nailles and Nellie had gone to a dinner party at the Ridleys’.

The Ridleys were a couple who brought to the hallowed institution of holy matrimony a definitely commercial quality as if to marry and conceive, rear and educate children was like the manufacture and merchandising of some useful product produced in competition with other manufacturers. They were not George and Helen Ridley. They were “the Ridleys.” One felt that they might have incorporated and sold shares in their destiny over the counter. “The Ridleys” was painted on the door of their station wagon. There was a sign saying “The Ridleys” at the foot of their driveway. In their house, matchbooks, coasters and napkins were all marked with their name. They presented their handsome children to their guests with the air of salesmen pointing out
the merits of a new car in a showroom. The lusts, griefs, exaltations and shabby worries of a marriage never seemed to have marred the efficiency of their organization. One felt that they probably had branch offices and a staff of salesmen on the road. They were very stingy with their liquor and when they got home Nailles made a nightcap for Nellie and himself.

Nailles put on eyeglasses to measure the whiskey. Now and then his glasses flashed a double beam of light. He seemed, to Nellie, fussy that night as he measured out the ice and soda and she noticed a large lipstick stain along the side of his mouth. He would have exchanged an innocent kiss behind a pantry door and this did not worry her but the streak of crimson made him look ridiculous. His procreative usefulness was over—she thought—but his venereal itch was unabated—he scratched himself while she watched—and she wondered if there wasn’t some massive obsolescence to the overly sensual man in his forties; some miscalculation in nature that left him able to populate a small city with his unwanted pro-generative energies. Later, when Nailles lurched over to Nellie’s side of the bed she didn’t actually kick him but she made it clear that he was unwelcome.

Now Nailles had no use for men who were afraid of women. He had grown up with a man who suffered from this terrible infirmity. His name was Harry Pile and Pile had been afraid of women all his life. This had begun quite naturally with his mother—a large, big-breasted, impetuous woman who fired out contradictory commands,
broke her husband’s spirit and thrashed her only son with a thorny walking stick. When Pile was eight or nine years old he fell in love with a girl named Janet Forbes. She was intelligent and responsive and yet in some way formidable. Her shoulders were broad, her voice was a little gruff for a girl and her uncle, Wilbert Forbes, had discovered a mountain in Alaska that bore his name. That Harry’s beloved shared her name with a mountain seemed to hint at some snowcapped massiveness, some inaccessibility that both pleased and frightened him. In school and college he invariably fell in love with women distinguished by their independence and intractability. He first married a high-spirited and beautiful young woman who gave him three daughters and then ran off with an Italian waiter. This deepened his fears. For his second wife he chose a woman so preternaturally demure, wistful and shy that it seemed he had outmaneuvered his fears but she turned out to be a heavy drinker and another source of anxiety. In the meantime the three daughters of his first marriage had grown up into argumentative, robust and determined young women and when he once tried to correct the eldest she picked up a china lamp and smashed it over the top of his head. It was Pile who swept up the pieces and retired in defeat. Pile was afraid of his secretary, afraid of his receptionist, afraid of strange women approaching him on the sidewalk. In his thirties he was taken ill and when Nailles went to visit him in the hospital he found, of course, that Pile was afraid of the nurses, afraid even of those kindly and maternal
volunteers who sell cigarettes and newspapers. He failed rapidly and when Nailles last saw him he was emaciated and barely able to speak. When Nailles asked if there was anything he wanted he shook his head. When Nailles asked if there was any friend he would like to see he merely sighed. When he finally spoke it was in a hoarse whisper. “Do you think God will be a woman?” he asked. It was one of the last things or perhaps the last thing he said, since he died that night.

Nailles was
not
afraid of Nellie but he bothered her no more. Frustrated, angry and indignant he went into the guest room and slept there.

   If you met Nailles on a train or a plane or a bus or a boat and asked him what he did he would describe himself as a chemist. If you questioned him further he would say that he worked for the Saffron Chemical Corporation but that was all you would get out of him. He had majored in chemistry at college but he had not taken a graduate degree and his chemistry was dated. He worked for Monsanto in Delaware for five years and then he worked for three years analyzing chemical fertilizers for the Food and Agricultural Offices of the United Nations in Rome. Saffron hired him when he returned to the United States. Saffron operated a small laboratory in Westfield but it was basically a manufacturing firm that produced a patent floor mop called Moppet, a line of furniture polish called Tudor, and Spang, a mouthwash. Nailles was principally occupied with the merchandising
of Spang and he was definitely restive about this. It seemed to reflect on his dignity. He had argued with himself frequently on this score. Would he be more dignified if he had manufactured mattresses, depilatories, stained-glass windows or toilet seats? No. In the TV commercials for Spang, boxers in the ring objected to one another’s bad breath. Bad breath came between young lovers, friends, husbands and wives. In a sense this was all true, he told himself. Bad breath was a human infirmity like obeseness and melancholy and it was his simple task to cure it. Sexual compatibility was the keystone to any robust marriage and bad breath could lead to divorce, alimony and custody suits. Bad breath could sap a man’s self-esteem, posture and appearance. Suspecting himself to be a sufferer, the victim would mumble into his shirt, hoping to divert the fumes downward. Bad breath recognized no class. Nailles had read in the paper that bad breath came between Lord Russell and his love. Bad breath could come between the priest and his flock, Nailles had observed when Father Ransome breathed on him as he reached for the chalice. In Nailles’s mythology the nymphs complained among themselves about the bad breath of Priapus. Bad breath drove children away from home. The wise statesman in his councils was not heeded because his breath was noxious. Bad breath was a cause of war.

Saffron was a paternal organization. A kindly old man named Marshman was president and majority stock owner and in the last year his son Michael had graduated
from college and joined the firm. He was energetic, full of ideas and detestable. He had the products appraised by a firm of motivational psychologists. They concluded that the formula for Spang was too bland. Cleanliness was associated—so they claimed—with bitterness, and the sales of Spang would increase if its taste was more unpleasant. The laboratory had been asked to work up a new formula and on the day after the Ridleys’ dinner Nailles drove to Westfield to test mouthwash. It was a pointless day. He rinsed and spat, rinsed and spat. His taste was not especially keen and when he chose a formula it was guesswork. He started back to Bullet Park at about four. His mouth was stinging and he stopped at a bar on the road for a drink.

There was nothing to recommend the place from the outside. It was shabby but when he stepped into the dark room he found himself in one of those quiet bars where the customers sit in a palpable atmosphere of sanctuary. The bartender wore a rented yellow jacket. Four men at the bar were drinking whiskey. One of them was feeding potato chips to a mongrel dog. “I never get any further than Southwark,” one of them said. “Southwark is the only place I ever get to any more.” There seemed to be some metric regulation to the pace of the talk. It was emotional, intimate, evocative and as random as poetry. They had come from other places and would go to other places but sitting against the light at four in the afternoon they seemed as permanent as the beer pulls. “I’ll buy a free drink for anyone that can tell me what kind of
dog my dog is,” said the man with the potato chips. There were no takers and so he answered the question himself. “My dog is half beagle,” he said, “and half Irish setter.”

Nailles ordered a martini, which marked him as a traveler and a stranger.

“I had this girl who used to say hello,” one of the men said. “You ever know a girl like that?” There was no answer and he went on. “She used to say hello all the time. I used to go over there on Thursday nights after supper. Her husband bowled on Thursdays. She was usually in a bathrobe or something like that and she’d give me a big kiss and start saying hello. So then when I was getting undressed she’d kiss my ears and everything and keep saying hello, hello, hello. She’d keep saying hello all through the preliminaries and then when we came to the main feature she’d keep on saying hello only louder and louder and finally she’d sort of yell hello, hello. Then afterwards she’d light me a cigarette and get me a drink of whiskey—she always did that—and she’d keep kissing me and saying hello. Then when I got dressed and kissed her good night she’d keep on saying hello. I suppose she must have said something else but I honestly can’t remember her saying anything but hello.”