People Who Knock on the Door (22 page)

“No, I—” Eddie Howell looked at Arthur. “You feel no guilt, no need to say, ‘I’m sorry’?”

“I’ve said that. Why should I go on repeating it? T-to whom?” Arthur thought of his father, smug with his sense of revenge. His father had thrown him out of the house. “If my father’s trying to bollix C.U. for me—somehow—he—can—”

“Arthur.” Betty was on her feet. “Easy does it.”

Eddie Howell also stood up and tilted his smiling face sideways. “Your father’s not trying to interfere with your schooling, Arthur. We want you back—back to the church and the friendly arms of the people who really care about you. This includes Christ, the greatest forgiver of them all.”

Friendly arms of his father? Eddie Howell’s words seemed to imply that Betty’s arms were not friendly.

“I do think, Mr. Howell,” Betty said, “that Arthur’s doing pretty well now. He works hard; he’s happy at C.U. I’m
very
glad to have him in the house here. So maybe you could tell Mr. Alderman that?” Gracefully she moved toward the door.

Eddie Howell was not quite finished and stood his ground. “You won’t be truly happy, Arthur, until you realize profoundly what has happened, until you decide to give yourself into the care of God and Christ.” At last he moved. “Good night, Mrs. Brewster and God bless you.”

Arthur did not listen to the mumbled words at the door. He wiped moisture from his forehead. The solid closing of the front door was a pleasure to hear. Betty came back.

“Well—now you see it,” Arthur said.

Betty gave a laugh. “Come on, Arthur. They mean well. They think they mean well.—Let’s forget about that visit. Stop frowning!”

“Okay.”

“I think a half scotch wouldn’t hurt you, Arthur. Neat. Let’s be—um—sinful.” She went to the bar cart in the corner of the room. “They really are boring, aren’t they?” Betty suddenly doubled over with a laugh.

“The line that killed me—my
father’s
welcoming arms—”

“Cool it, Arthur,” Betty said, smiling at him.

Maggie had inherited her calm from her mother, Arthur thought. “Yes, ma’am.”

23

S
ome ten days before Easter holidays, Arthur received a letter from Maggie. It said:

Dearest Arthur,

Now I have some news which I know you may take hard. It is also very hard for me to write. It is not just that I met somebody else, but it is more important than that. There is someone, and that is Larry Hargiss. But I also have changed a lot since last September and also last summer. Maybe you have, too?

So I am not coming home for Easter. And I hope really that you can manage to forget me without too much pain. I know what we had was important—for both of us. But we were like children then compared to now, don’t you think? At least it
helps
to think of it that way. I will always care for you in a very special way, because you are important in my life. But there is a long tough way ahead for you, more years of school, and for me, too, very likely more than three years if we both go on to graduate schools.

My mother I know would still like to have you stay with her. But I will understand if you don’t feel like it. I know you are very serious and this may upset you.

With very much love,

Maggie

Arthur had read it quickly, standing in his room in the Brewster house, and now he felt faint, though he didn’t sit down. So it was Larry Hargiss after all, the medical student of Harvard. The name had stuck unpleasantly in his head since Maggie had uttered it on the ride homeward from the airport at Christmas. Now here it was. Damn the bastard! And Maggie was probably spending Easter vacation with him either at his parents’ house or at some resort. Did Betty know about Larry? Maybe, because Maggie had written “My mother I know would still like . . .” Betty would have waited, of course, for Maggie to break the news. And at Christmas? Maggie hadn’t been pretending to him at Christmas, Arthur was sure. What had happened since Christmas? He stared at her letter with the feeling that it had been written by another person, but the handwriting was hers. Arthur put the letter on the table near his typewriter. It was twenty-two minutes past noon.

He had no classes till 2 p.m., which was why he had come back to the Brewster house for lunch and an hour’s reading (English). He felt he was not going to make it to English class at 2, or to Bio at 3 and French at 4. Certainly he could afford to cut, as his attendance record was close to perfect. And of all things to think about, whether he could afford to cut!

Betty was out, for how long Arthur didn’t know, maybe till 6. Arthur went down to the kitchen to get a cup of coffee.

He would have to move at once from the Brewsters’ into one of the dorms. Impossible to think of living and sleeping here now. Suddenly Maggie’s room with its writing table and books upright at the back of it against the wall, her typewriter with its green felt cover, her dressing table on which stood a few bottles of perfume, eau de cologne, mysterious little boxes—all this, he realized, had been a private display, a little like a portrait of Maggie that he could look at when she was gone. Now the same picture seemed to shut him out, like the unfriendly face of a stranger. One day she might open her room door to Larry Hargiss.

After half a cup of coffee, Arthur went quickly upstairs to the bathroom and threw up into the toilet. Then he washed his face with a cold towel and brushed his teeth.

It’d be a good idea to meet his classes this afternoon, instead of falling apart, he thought. He drove early back to C.U., and wandered around under the trees of the campus, over an arched footbridge, keeping his eyes on the ground, until time for English class. In the middle of the second class, microbio, he sneaked out when Professor Jurgens was writing something on the blackboard.

Arthur walked to the Administration Building. He was told that there was a place in Hamilton Hall which he could share with one other male student.

“Nothing in Creighton?” Arthur asked for no particular reason, except that a bio student whom he rather liked, Stephen Summer, lived in Creighton.

“Creighton’s full, I know that.”

“Then I’d better take the Hamilton. Can I confirm that tomorrow? I didn’t bring my c-c—” He hesitated between cash and checkbook, and it took one or the other to clinch it.

The woman said she would reserve it through tomorrow, and Arthur didn’t leave before he had it written on a piece of paper that he had an option on room 214 at Hamilton.

Write today off, he told himself. He wanted to see Gus. Meanwhile, he had to pack up his things and explain to Betty. So he drove back to the Brewsters’ house. Betty was still not in, and Arthur took a couple of plastic bags from the broom closet and went upstairs and started his packing. Several minutes later, when he was almost finished, he heard the faint thud of the front door closing, and minutes after that, Betty’s voice calling:

“Arthur? Would you like some tea?”

Arthur went to his door. “Yep! Thanks.—See you.”

“I thought you had classes this afternoon,” Betty said when he came down. She was in the kitchen, and the electric kettle had just started to boil.

“Wasn’t feeling so well today.”

“Not getting flu, are you? It’s around, I heard today.”

“I had a letter from Maggie. It seems she’s met somebody else.”

“Oh?—Who?”

“Somebody called Larry?” Arthur tried to sound casual.

“That medical student.”

“So you knew about it,” Arthur said.

“No, I didn’t, Arthur. She mentioned him a couple of times in her letters. I knew he liked
her
.—Let’s go in. Can you carry that?”

Arthur carried the tray. He was thinking that Maggie had sounded quite as usual the last time she had telephoned on a Sunday, and he had been able to speak with her for a minute, after Betty.

“Arthur, I
am
sorry. Maybe it’ll blow over. Who knows?”

Arthur set the tray down on the coffee table. “Maggie doesn’t say something she doesn’t mean.”

Betty poured the tea and cut two pieces of cake. “Maggie may get over this Larry in a month!—But I can imagine what I say doesn’t make you feel any better just now.”

Still, Arthur hung on her every word. “I’ve heard,” he said, stirring his tea, “girls always prefer fellows a little older than they are. I can’t do much about that.”

Betty extended a plate of cake to him. “Have this—I insist. And eat it.—It’s not the end of the world, Arthur. Even if Maggie—even if it lasts for a while. Is this Larry the person Maggie’s going to spend the rest of her life with? You’re both eighteen. It’s hard to plan a whole life at eighteen.”

Was it hard? Arthur was planning his life in biology, maybe specifically microbiology, and he felt he was on the right track. He wasn’t suddenly going to become an architect. He had felt on the right track with Maggie. “Half my life’s just gone,” he said. “Maggie is half my life.”

Betty shook her head. “It just seems that way today!”

“Yes.” It seemed to Arthur as true as anything he had ever seen under a microscope or seen proved by logic. “So I thought I should get out of the house. I can definitely leave tomorrow, if that’s all right. Even tonight, if I sleep at Gus’s.”

“Not necessary, Arthur,” Betty said slowly. “You’re as welcome here as you ever were.” She poured more tea for both of them. She had strong but graceful hands, much like Maggie’s.

“This is so much Maggie’s house—to me. Tomorrow I know I can get a dorm room, because I asked today.”

Betty sighed and took a cigarette. “I understand.—It might even be good for you to try to forget her for a while. See what happens. You can’t just mope for the next many weeks, Arthur; your class work would go to hell and you don’t want that!”

Before 7 that evening, Arthur telephoned Gus, and asked if he could come over, knowing Gus and his family wouldn’t mind if he crashed in while they were having dinner. Then Arthur knocked on Betty’s half-open door and told her that he was going over to Gus’s for a while.

“Good idea, Arthur! See you later, maybe.”

At Gus’s house, it was twenty minutes before they could go up to his room, and during this time in the kitchen where dinner was in progress, Gus’s mother insisted on giving Arthur a plate of something at a corner of the table.

“Maggie’s met someone else. Older guy. Wouldn’t you know,” Arthur said, when Gus had closed his room door.

“Oh, yeah?—I had that feeling tonight, looking at you.”

“You did?” It sounded like a pronouncement that he even looked dead to other people and was still somehow walking around. “Jesus!” Arthur bent his head, put his face into his palms and wept. He held his breath.

“Yeah, yeah,” Gus said. “It happens. Boy, yeah—I heard of it. A lot.”

Arthur laughed and looked at Gus through wet eyes. “Not to you, ol’ pal, I hope. Not
you
!”

“Na-ah—yeah. Little bit when I was sixteen. But you and Maggie—well, I was hoping it would last. Y’know what Veronica would say?”

“What?” asked Arthur, eager for words, thoughts.

“Meet somebody else. Even if it’s short. Yep, you know she was saying something like that the other day about a girl she knows. The girl got left high ’n dry and was talking about suicide.”

“Well, I ain’t thinkin’ about
suicide
!” Arthur said with a laugh.

Gus ran down to the kitchen and was back in a flash with two beer cans and two Coke cans. “Tonight you got a choice.”

“I’m moving out of the Brewster house,” Arthur said.

“I can understand that.”

“So now I’m a man without a country.” Arthur hoisted his beer. “Without a home, anyway. I can go into Hamilton Hall dorm tomorrow, by the way. I asked this afternoon.”

The following day at the lunch hour, Arthur moved into 214 of Hamilton Hall, having paid a month’s bill in cash taken from his savings bank. His roommate or study-mate Frank Costello was not in. The room was not large, and its area was square, its walls originally creamy white but now soiled with fingerprints and odd smudges. In opposite corners stood two single beds, and against opposite walls, two writing tables, so that the table-users would have their backs to each other. One scruffy carpet, not very big. On an old-fashioned trunk with metal corners, no doubt Costello’s, stood a hot plate with one burner, and Arthur had just been told that hot plates were not allowed. Costello’s bed was unmade, and the other bed’s two blankets had been carelessly thrown over the bed, and there was no pillow, Arthur noticed. A carton of empty Coke bottles sat by the trunk. The one window on Arthur’s side looked onto the campus and at least had a view of tall and handsome trees. There was a tiny fridge on the floor near Costello’s trunk, and in the wall there, the swivel telephone, now swivelled toward the next room, and its convex container had the words YACK BOX penciled on it. Arthur went over and turned it. A gray telephone, filthy with fingerprints, came into view. What would
that
show up under a microscope in the way of germs, and was it even safe to hold it anywhere near one’s nose or mouth?

Arthur gave a laugh like a yelp that brought tears to his eyes, sent a shiver over him, and after the crazy laugh, he felt better, but was glad Frank Costello hadn’t walked in and heard him. He set his suitcase, duffel bag and typewriter closer to his bed, and now he noticed a minuscule chest of drawers beside his bed. The top of it served as a night table, Arthur supposed. He returned to the swivel telephone, because he wanted to call his mother before she left for the Home. He pressed the O button and had to identify himself before he was given permission to dial.

Arthur’s father answered, one of the rare days he was home for lunch, but Arthur didn’t give a damn today.

“Mom there?” Arthur asked.

“Just a minute. Lois?”

His mother came on.

“Hi, Mom. Just wanted to tell you I moved into Hamilton Hall at C.U. today.”

“Oh?—Why this decision?”

“Well, to put it quickly—Maggie’s sort of said good-bye to me.” Arthur stood up straight and looked at the ceiling. His mother sounded thoroughly shocked. “
Yes
, Mom, but don’t say anything to Dad, will you? Please . . . Oh, it’s nothing great but quite okay. Thanks to you and Grandma, I suppose I can afford it . . . Yes.” He gave his mother the number, reading it from the dirty telephone base. He had to assure his mother he wasn’t unhappy and had to promise to telephone her at the weekend and come for a meal. Arthur promised only the telephone call.

Then he unpacked, making use of a tiny closet, and left a note on Costello’s bed, saying he was the new room-sharer and would be back at 5:30. He went off for afternoon classes, followed by a stop at the town’s main supermarket where he bought some fruit, Cokes, beer and milk. While he was putting these things away, some into the little fridge, a slender dark-haired fellow came into the room, and showed no surprise at seeing Arthur.

“Hello. Arthur Alderman,” Arthur said. “You’re Frank?”

“Yup.” Now Frank frowned. He had a couple of books under one arm and a brown paper bag in one hand.

“Just bought a little stuff,” Arthur said. “Wrote you a note.” He nodded toward Frank’s bed. “The dorm people didn’t tell you I was coming in?”

“Nope. Didn’t hear from ’em. Didn’t see ’em today.” Frank let his books fall on his bed. Then he pushed off his desert boots, carried the paper bag to the fridge area, pulled out a six-pack of Coca-Cola and cut its cardboard with a bread knife. “Want one?”

“No, thanks. Just bought some.”

“I’m not here too much. Goin’ out tonight,” said Frank.

Arthur was still on his knees by the fridge. “Where you from?”

“New York.” His dark brown eyes were pink-rimmed.

Arthur doubted that, for some reason, but it was of no importance. Frank went out with his bathrobe and returned in it, carrying his clothes, a few minutes later as Arthur was going out to sample the Hamilton Hall refectory. The dining hall was cafeteria-style and not crowded, though already rather noisy, and the food was what Arthur had been told it was, boring but ample. When he returned to his room, Frank had gone, and Arthur sat down to write a letter to Maggie. He wrote it in longhand.

Today I moved from your house to room 214 in Hamilton Hall of C.U.