God's Pocket - Pete Dexter (25 page)

He dropped Leon face down a few yards into the alley
and flexed the hand he had used to carry him. The elbow on the other
side was beginning to hurt him more now, but he had tom it out before
and knew what to expect. The ear was a surprise. That was on fire.

He turned the body over and then lifted it by the
collar until it was almost standing against the wall. He heard cats
farther back in the alley. He remembered Leon telling him he and his
friends hunted cats when they were growing up. They'd used softball
bats. He left Leon in the alley and went for the truck.

On the way, he stopped at the ramp and found a place
where the railing was waist-high from the sidewalk. He pressed his
chest into the railing, then reached through it with his good right
arm, through and down, and touched his left hand. Without stopping or
thinking it over, he lifted the hand slowly until the forearm was
touching the rail. He was sweating now, hot and cold at the same
time. He gave himself five seconds—not enough time for the pain to
gather itself—and then lifted his left shoulder slow and steady
against the railing, and at the same time he used his right hand to
run his left hand over, until the palm was up.

Finally, there was a popping noise in the joint, and
the pain changed, took on a heat and steadied, and Mickey lowered his
hand, slowly, and stepped away from the rail.

He put his hand in his pants pocket to protect the
elbow and walked around the comer. It was eight o'clock, but in the
rain the street was empty. In the rain, it could have been midnight.

Without stopping or thinking it over, he backed the
truck into the mouth of the alley and left the engine running and the
turn signals on. Leon had fallen and was lying next to the wall. The
turn signals blinked yellow, and Mickey picked him up—clumsy now,
working with only one hand—and dragged him toward the truck.
Putting the elbow back together had left him weak, and he dragged the
body, holding onto the collar, a length of his step at a time.

The truck lights blinked on and off Leon's face,
orange and black, until it looked like he was crawling. It looked
like that, and then it looked like somebody was taking flash pictures
of Mickey disposing of the body. He dragged Leon to the truck and
left him on the ground while he opened the door. There was a small
light inside that ran off the generator. The sides of beef Bird had
given him were still laid out in gauze wrapping over the back axle.
He climbed in and moved two of them farther back. As he bent over,
his elbow moved and settled, but he kept working, without stopping or
thinking it over. He knew not to give it a chance to all gather up on
him. He listened to the sound of his own breathing and felt his pulse
in his ear.

It took a long time to make a place for Leon. He
didn't know how long, it felt like half the night. Then he climbed
out and picked Leon up one-handed, by the front of his shirt, until
he was almost standing again, then leaned him back onto the floor of
the truck. He got back in and dragged him to the spot he had cleared
over the aide, between four sides of Kansas prime beef. He
straightened Leon's hair—he didn't know why, but it seemed
right—and then, after he'd looked at it a minute longer, he moved
the hands so they looked a little neater on his chest.

Then he drove the two blocks to his house, put the
truck in the garage, plugged in the generator, and locked the door.
Before he walked in the house he tucked in his shirt and brushed off
his pants. Then, without stopping or thinking it over, he went in and
called for Jeanie.

He'd thought the place was empty at first, then
somebody was moving upstairs. "Jeanie?" he said. And she
came to the head of the stairs, and from her face he could see that
he looked worse than he thought he did. He was about to tell her that
it if wasn't nothing, but she said something first.

She said, "I'm up here with Richard Shellburn,"
like that was the name of something that was supposed to be upstairs.
A minute later the reporter was standing behind her, red-eyed and
wrinkled, all out of focus. "He wanted to see Leon's room,"
she said. Her voice sounded weak; he thought she'd seen his arm. It
was still swelling, and there was more heat in it all the time. But
she came down the stairs without looking at it. In fact, without
looking at him.

"Richard Shellburn," she said. "This
is my husband."

Mickey didn't offer to shake hands. Shellburn was
older than he looked in his picture. Older and grayer and messier.
And afraid. Richard Shellburn wore that like a sandwich board. He was
patting himself down now, looking for something. He found it in his
coat pocket, a reporter's notebook. He took it out and checked the
top pages. Shellburn said, "I think that's all we need for now .
. ." and put the notebook back. Too fast. Jeanie walked him to
the front door, and Mickey saw them looking at each other before he
left. "There may be something that comes up," he said. "We
may have to call you again."

Jeanie said, "Please do. This is all I've got to
do." And she thanked him for coming. Mickey watched them from
the bottom of the stairs, on the spot he'd been standing when Jeanie
told him she was up there with Richard Shellburn.

She took the reporter's hand in both of hers and
thanked him again. "If there's anything we can do . . ."
Then Shellburn nodded at Mickey without exactly looking at him, and
stepped out the door. Jeanie watched him cross the street and get
into a car, and then she turned back into her own house.

He was going to tell her there was a problem with the
arrangements as soon as he got in the house. He didn't know how he
was going to tell her, except he was going to do it without stopping
or thinking it over, but then it was too late because Jeanie gave him
one of those smiles she used for priests she didn't know, and walked
past without even noticing his ear.

She sat down in the middle of the sofa, then dropped
her head into one of the cushions and pulled her feet up and closed
her eyes. "Jeanie?" he said, but she settled deeper into
the couch, farther from him.

Mickey went upstairs and looked in the bathroom
mirror.

She should of noticed the ear. It was skinned, top to
bottom, and torn about half an inch where it connected to his jaw.
The blood from the tear had run in a thin path straight down his neck
into his shirt. He found some alcohol in the cabinet, thrown in there
a long time ago and hidden by years of accumulated makeup and perfume
and shit for glossy hair.

When Jeanie was through using something, she didn't
throw it away. She just quit using it.

He soaked a Kleenex in alcohol and cleaned the ear,
starting with the edge and working in into all the ridges and nests
in there. Then, slowly, he pulled his left hand out of his pocket. He
unbuttoned his shirt and let it fall off the damaged arm. The inside
of the elbow was dark red and turning blue, about half as big again
as it had been the last time he'd seen it. When he leaned to turn on
the bath water, the elbow moved, and the pain, now there was time for
it, took him over. He closed his eyes and bent over the arm and
thought of Leon in the truck, and Jeanie up here in the room with
Richard Shellburn.

And now there was time, he let himself feel it. And
then he was throwing up, wet-eyed and shaking, again and again, a
long time after his stomach had given up the beer he'd drunk with
Jack Moran. When it stopped he stood up, and stepped into the bath.
He found some of her bubble bath on the edge of the tub and poured
that over the water. The water was hot, and he was tired every way
there was to be tired.

He lay down and the water took the weight out of his
elbow, out of his chest. He closed his eyes and held on. It wouldn't
be the same for her after it was all over, he knew that. She would
wake up in the mornings different, and maybe she would look at him
again, and maybe she wouldn't. He held on. He wanted to go downstairs
where she was sleeping and give her something, or just be in the same
room with her. He opened his eyes, and it was all weak. The bathroom
looked different, he couldn't say how. The truck had looked different
at first after old Daniel was gone too.

He wanted to give her something so bad it made him
weak, and he saw that took away the thing she'd wanted him for. And
then there were two quick knocks and the door opened—before he had
a chance—and Jeanie walked one step into the bathroom and stopped
cold, staring at the bathtub where he was lying up to his chin in
bubbles, crying like a baby.

She never said a word. She
just turned around and walked out, and closed the door behind her.

* * *

It wasn't that she'd traded in her husband for
Richard Shellburn. It was more like he'd deserted her. That was a
good word for it. Deserted. Ever since what happened to Leon, Mickey
wasn't there anymore. He never got near her. He was out in his truck
or he was drinking. She'd told him something had happened to Leon,
and he'd gone to deliver meat. It was more like he didn't know what
to do than he didn't care, but it amounted to the same thing.

There was a time when his awkward way around her was
nice—after all the others it was sweet, a man like a boy—but when
she'd finally needed him for something, he'd been afraid to get near
it. It wasn't just finding out what happened to Leon, but that would
have done for starters.

She woke up on the couch, thinking about that. It was
dark outside and she didn't know how long she'd been asleep. Her
sisters hadn't come back, the house was quiet. Mickey was probably
across the street at the Hollywood. It didn't seem to matter, he'd
taken himself out of it. She thought of Richard Shellburn again and
the strange way he'd held her. It was as new remembering it as when
it happened. She wondered if the place in Maryland was real, he'd
seemed so sad ....

She got up, wanting to look at herself in a mirror.
She wanted to see what Richard Shellburn had seen. And so she'd
walked up the stairs to the bathroom, knocked—why hadn't he said he
was in there?—and then walked in on him, like that. She might as
well of found him dressed in nylons and high heels. The bathroom
smelled like vomit, and she got out before she threw up too.

She got out and went down the stairs, and the phone
rang. She had a feeling it was Richard Shellburn, and put something
for him in her voice. "Hello?"

"Jeanie?" It wasn't the columnist, but it
was somebody drunk.

"Yes."

"Lemme tell you some advice. Go ask your husband
where Leon is."

She said, "Who is this?" It sounded like
Jack Moran.

"Jack?"

There was a pause at the other end, the sound of a
beery opening. "I ain't sayin' who this is, but just do yourself
one favor. Ask your husband where the body is." And then he hung
up.

"Ask your husband where the body is.”

It had that old, comfortable feel of tragedy. Leon
was supposed to be at Jack Moran's, at least that's who had his suit.
Then she remembered the cop. Eisenhower, like the president. He'd
looked at her too. He was quieter about it than Richard Shellburn,
but he liked her. She thought maybe Eisenhower had taken Leon
somewhere to test him. The cops hadn't wanted to, but he said he'd
look into it again. He hadn't wanted to, but he was the kind who
would do what he said.

Yes, Eisenhower had taken Leon for tests. She didn't
know why Jack Moran would be calling her up at this time of night to
tell her something like that, except Jack Moran was an ugly drunk.
She wanted to tell Mickey—no, she wanted to tell Richard Shellburn.

When she had to, Jeanie could be adjustable.

She heard the toilet flush, and then the sound of his
footsteps, going into Leon's room. The phone rang again. "Did
you ask him?" She hung it up, then put the receiver under a
pillow. It was quiet upstairs, and she went into the kitchen and made
herself a cup of hot chocolate.

She wondered how it was Richard Shellburn had noticed
her, with all the girls there were in Center City. Just their clothes
made her. feel too far behind to ever catch up, and made her not want
to go there anymore.

Somehow, though, he'd looked past all of them and
found his way to her house. And he'd laid down with her on a bed and
held her, and told her about another place. She remembered the way
he'd been and knew she was the only one he would tell.

She liked that. She liked it a ways better than
walking in the bathroom and finding her husband—who'd never even
say it if he had a headache before—crying in the bathtub. The hot
chocolate made her sleepy, but she stayed in the kitchen. She didn't
want to go upstairs.

She hadn't thought about Shellburn's looks. She
guessed his face was handsome once, but he was beyond that now. He
seemed so sad. He was older than Mickey, and his back and arms
weren't hard, but Richard Shellburn was from some other place where
that didn't have nothing to do with it. She'd been with most kinds of
men, some of them gone to seed, but there was a difference between
that and somebody who never had muscles. She reminded herself then
that she hadn't traded in Mickey for the columnist. He'd deserted.

She fixed another cup of hot chocolate and sat for an
hour in the kitchen, thinking about them, and then Joyce came in the
door, carrying a sack of groceries, and Jeanie realized that it had
been an hour and she hadn't thought about Leon once. She thought
maybe she was making an adjustment.