People Who Knock on the Door (31 page)

Gus had more questions. How long was Robbie going to be where he was? And could his mother afford to keep the house? Arthur said he wasn’t sure. Gus went down for more drink, and Arthur put a cassette on, with the volume very low.

“Got a joint. Mary Warner,” Gus said when he came back. “Want to share it?”

They knelt on the floor and smoked by the open window. Gus said his parents had noses like foxes. Arthur tried to believe he was getting a big kick from the joint. He wanted to feel floating, going out into space, able to float anywhere.

“There’s one,” said Gus, grinning, pointing out the window at the darkening street below. “Pot her!” Gus pointed a finger. “Bang-bang! Gotcha!”

Arthur suppressed a wild laugh. A woman was walking along the sidewalk in an interestingly languid way, by herself, under the trees. “One place I don’t want to go to tonight.”

“Where’s that?”

“Silver Arrow.”

“Hah!”

Arthur drew the last of his share and handed the rather soft cigarette to Gus.

29

A
rthur stood in front of his parents’ closet in the bedroom, pulling his father’s clothes off hangers, making a heap for the Salvation Army. He hated the chore, and his mother had given it to him, he supposed, because the clothing was “men’s things.” The chest of drawers yielded shirts, sweaters, several mufflers, scarves, handkerchiefs. Arthur was to put aside what Robbie might use—shirts and sweaters, Arthur supposed. Arthur felt baffled and depressed after ten minutes, wanted to ask his mother if she could finish the rest, but she was at the table in the kitchen answering letters of condolence she had received, which seemed to number fifty or sixty, so Arthur kept at it.

It was Saturday afternoon and raining lightly, when Arthur would have liked to be fooling around in the backyard. That morning his mother had gone to visit Robbie, this time taking him a few of what she thought were his favorite books, one of Jack London’s and one called
Woodlore
with a gaudy cardboard cover that made it look like a book for ten-year-olds, which it probably was. His mother had also taken Robbie a jar of homemade strawberry jam from last year. Robbie was to go to Foster House on Monday.

Arthur went to his father’s study and took several stamps and a couple of stamp books that he remembered were lying on a corner of his father’s desk. He put these on the table where his mother was writing. “Coffee, Mom?”

“Yes, please.—Some of these letters are so sweet,” said his mother. “Listen to this one. Where is it? From Cora Bowman at the Home. You remember her?”

Arthur did not.

“‘Richard always had time for people and the kindness to say a sweet word when they needed it.’ That’s a happy thought, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Arthur. He thought his mother looked tired. She had washed her hair after lunch; it was nearly dry, and she hadn’t combed it out. “Mom, can’t I do some of that answering for you?”

She remonstrated, saying the letters were addressed to her, but Arthur won her over by saying surely some of them were “mixed.” So Arthur got a pen and set about answering the first letter he opened. This was from Myra and Jack O’Reilly, whom Arthur didn’t know from Eve and Adam. Arthur wrote:

On behalf of my mother and myself, I write this to thank you for your words of sympathy in our days of grief here . . .

As he went on with other letters, varying his words but not the idea, the blatant phoniness that he felt in himself disappeared. He was doing the right thing. What he wrote and signed had nothing to do with himself. His house was supposed to be a house of grief now, but it was a more cheerful house already than it had been in more than a year. In fact, how sincere were all these letter-writers? After nearly forty-five minutes of this, Arthur dropped the pen and telephoned the Salvation Army. The Salvation Army promised to come and collect before 9 on Monday morning.

“We might change Robbie’s room around. Don’t you think so, Arthur?” his mother asked. She was standing at the threshold of Robbie’s room.

“Sure.”

“It’ll be more cheerful for him—different, when he comes home. The bed could go against the opposite wall with the head near that window.”

Arthur saw what she meant, but was not interested. Worn-out cardboard boxes cluttered the corners of the room, some holding childhood games, Arthur knew, and maybe some held ammunition. Robbie had always hoarded things. “Mom—the carpet for the study. Let’s think about that.”

On Monday morning, after the Salvation Army’s coming and going, Arthur and his mother went to a department store in town and chose a sturdy carpet material of a color called simply “light oak.” A couple of men arrived Tuesday morning to lay the carpet, and on Lois’s instructions they set the desk in a different place, against the inside wall. This would cause pictures to be rehung, which inspired Lois to think of new wallpaper. New wallpaper was obligatory in Arthur’s opinion, because of the shotgun pellet marks in one wall, which his mother oddly seemed not to see, though Arthur was always aware of them.

“White!” Lois said. “I want this room to be light and cheerful. And I’m sure I can tidy up that desk and make it useful.” She was smiling.

Arthur nodded. He could certainly clean up the desk one afternoon when his mother was at the Home and give her a nice surprise. The desk was oak and needed some hand-sanding and then furniture polish. Arthur wanted every piece of paper that had belonged to his father out of the desk, so that the desk could start to belong to his mother. He began this job after his mother left for the Home that day. He put the curling tablets, the old folders of probably useless and obsolete business papers (otherwise the woman from the office would have taken them) into a big plastic shopping bag, and stuck it in the garage. What a mess when people die, Arthur thought.

And later that afternoon, Arthur met his grandmother at Indi Airport and found her in much better spirits than last week. She asked questions, mainly about his mother, as they drove homeward.

“Any more news from what’s-her-name? Irene?”

“No, thank God.” Arthur had a vision of her, more pregnant than ever, swinging coffee mugs at the Silver Arrow.

“And when is that offspring due?”

“September?” Arthur said hesitantly. “Who knows exactly?”

“And what about your exams? Have you had the results yet?”

“Friday,” Arthur said. “I go in Friday and take a look at the bulletin boards.”

At home, dinner was under way and his mother had put on pale blue slacks and a white shirt. His grandmother had been in the house hardly two minutes when his mother said:

“Oh, the new carpet, Mama! Come and look!” Lois led her mother to the study.

The new light-oak-colored carpet, clean as if no one had as yet set foot on it, stretched into the four corners of the room. The desk now sat on the left, with a space between it and the wall for a chair, so that someone at the desk would face the backyard wall with its big glass door. The boring gray metal files Arthur had wanted to chuck, but his mother meant to use them, once Arthur painted them white. Arthur’s eyes as usual were drawn to the spatter of little holes in the wall to his right.

“Wallpaper comes next,” said his mother as they went out of the room. “We might do that this week, Mama.”

After dinner, during coffee, his grandmother said, “Now about this infant-to-be—Thank you, Arthur,” she interrupted, because Arthur had sprung to light her after-dinner cigarette. “What’s your attitude going to be, Loey? That’s important.” She pulled a pillow behind her in a corner of the sofa.

“I’m not a hundred percent sure it’s—you know, what that woman’s saying,” Lois replied.

“Yes, Loey,” Joan said with a glance at Arthur, “but if she asks you for total or partial support—”

Arthur hadn’t thought of that.

“I’d say no, I swear,” said his mother.

“And if she wants to put the child in the Home? Not when it’s tiny, but when it’s about two—or less?” his grandmother asked.

His mother sighed. “She’d be allowed to do that. Yes.—Don’t forget Bob Cole said the church was going to give her some money.”

No one spoke for a few seconds.

“And if the baby turns out to be very much like Richard, what’s your attitude going to be, Loey?—Best to be prepared.”

His mother reflected. “I’m going to ignore it.”

There was another silence, but a better one, Arthur felt. The baby would be his father’s; the resemblance might be beyond any doubt. But at least his mother had begun to form “an attitude.” But where would ignoring the child get her in Chalmerston? The church people, and his mother’s friends, they would all be interested in that baby and what it looked like.

“I could ask to have a blood test made,” his mother said. “That just might clear Richard.”

His grandmother said, “Yes, dear, and it might do the opposite. I’m concerned with your stance.”

Arthur said quietly, “My dad had Type O. I remember that from somewhere. The commonest type. Forty-five percent of people have Type O.”

3O

J
oan pronounced the carpet in Robbie’s room worn out and said she would make him a present of another. She and his mother went off Wednesday afternoon to look for wallpaper and the new carpet. His grandmother considered herself a good paperhanger, and with a little help from Arthur, she said she would do Robbie’s room and the study too.

On Thursday Arthur was sent to town to buy another wide paste brush, a bucket and plaster of Paris. He bought these things at Schmidt’s, the biggest hardware store in town, realized that he was only a block away from Shoe Repair, and decided to say hello to Tom Robertson.

Arthur was surprised to see the front of the adjacent store demolished, workmen banging away with hammers and another pushing a wheelbarrow of cement up a ramp. Shoe Repair’s rather primitive but neat sign was still in place over the door and front window, however, and Arthur saw that the shop was doing business today as usual. He went in. The right-hand wall of the shop had been knocked out.

“Hell-o, Arthur!” said Tom, in shirt sleeves and perspiring. “How’re you, boy? What d’y’think of this?” He gestured toward the torn-down wall. “I’m spreading out. I bought the next property there. Ground floor only.”

“Really? Business that good?”

“Maybe I’m one of the few these days,” Tom said with a satisfied smile. “What’re you up to? It’s been a year, hasn’t it? College—” Then he looked as if he had thought of something unpleasant. “Your father—can’t tell you how surprised I was to read about
that
, Arthur. How’s your mother doing?”

“Pretty well, I think, thanks. My grandma’s visiting now and that’s a help.”

“I’m sure it is.—And what about your brother?”

Arthur felt shame, and hated it. “He’s in a place called Foster House—for six months. Near Indi.”

Tom shook his head slowly. Then he said, “If you want a summer job—or maybe you don’t.”

“Well, yes, I might!” Arthur smiled.

“You could be my manager!” Tom turned to listen to a woman customer. “They’re down there on the lower right, ma’am. All the patent leathers.” He again addressed Arthur. “You could help me ordering stock, display—Got one boy—” He looked behind him. “Nice enough boy as a salesman, but you’d make a better manager. Regular salary if you can work a full day. Say two hundred a week?”

That sounded good. “Fair enough. Can I tell you for sure tomorrow? I’d like to work here, Tom. Thanks.”

“Sure, no big hurry, but—” He looked at the open wall bordered with jagged plaster on his left. “—the sooner the better. I’ve ordered a lot of new stock.”

Arthur went away cheered. Why had he even hesitated? Maybe because his mother’s and grandmother’s financial reckonings might make them decide that the Alderman family, what was left of it, should sell the house and move, maybe move out of town. They were going over the insurance papers this minute.

Once home, Arthur was put to work scraping at the remnants of old wallpaper in Robbie’s room. He disliked the thought that he was working on the walls for Robbie, but he reflected that it might be a long time before Robbie lived in the house again, probably a lot longer than six months.

As they were starting dessert that evening, his grandmother said quite casually, “I don’t see why you can’t go to Columbia in September, Arthur, if you still want to go.”

Arthur had his mouth full of cake. “Oh?” He was amazed, having thought that the household was going to have less money now, not more.

“Yes,” said his grandmother. “There’s the insurance—considerable. Your mother’s pension as a widow. Not to mention that I feel free to contribute something now—so I hope that cheers you up, Arthur.”

“Certainly does.” He was thinking that a renewal of his grant for next year could contribute something, too, but didn’t want to mention this until he was sure of it. “Some other good news today, Mom. Tom Robertson offered me a job full-time. As manager, he calls it. How about that? Two hundred a week. Tom’s bought the space next door—you know, where there used to be a little electrical appliances shop?”

“Really, Arthur? And you took it?”

Arthur saw from his mother’s happy face that she assumed he had. “I will take it. I told Tom I’d tell him tomorrow.”

That evening, Arthur and his grandmother worked until after midnight and got more than half the walls in Robbie’s room papered. Arthur played a couple of his Brandenburg cassettes to cheer them as they labored.

On Friday morning, Arthur drove to the Administration Building of C.U. in whose basement the grades of the entire student body were displayed for all to see. The bulletin boards were well lit with little lights above them, but the corridors suggested dungeons, and students shuffled along, stiff, anxious and silent. Some stared at the bulletin boards as if frozen by terrible shock. Arthur came upon Philosophy P 112 first, and saw that he had got a B-plus. Encouraging and better than he had expected. He sidled past a clump of students in jeans and T-shirts who were yacketing and laughing, maybe with relief. French was next with a B-minus. That too could have been worse! He ran into Gus.

“Passed bugs,” said Gus with a tired but happy smile.

“Oh, good.” Arthur knew Gus had been worried about this course which demanded a prodigious memory. “Veronica here?”

“Helping her mother out with something. Wants me to get her grades for her.” Gus held up a notebook he was carrying. “So far no failures.”

“Come by the house some time. My grandma’s with us. We’re doing wallpapering. I don’t mean you have to work.”

“Okay. Call you first, though.”

Physics 126. Arthur had a B-plus. Another success. Then he deliberately sought out the Biology corridor in the labyrinth. Microbiology 310. His name was near the top of the alphabetical lists and easy to spot. There was an A-plus beside it. Arthur felt his face grow warm, as if someone were with him and he were blushing. No other name had an A-plus beside it, he saw at a glance, and there were only two other A’s, one for Summer, the boy Arthur liked. Arthur didn’t look at the fellows around him as he moved away from the board. He was not much interested in his English results, but sought out the board and found a B-plus. Very respectable if not quite tops.

As he was leaving the building, Arthur saw Francey in her faded, cut-off jeans, a shirt with tails hanging out.

“Lousy C-minus in Drama,” Francey said to him with the start of tears in her eyes. “It’s incredible! That instructor’s nuts! C-minus doesn’t make sense, not with the
work
I did!”

Arthur frowned. “Sorry, Francey.” A second later, she was gone.

When Arthur got home, his grandmother told him that his mother was out at the supermarket.

“Look at the progress here!” His grandmother was on her knees in the study, cutting lengths of white wallpaper with the aid of a yardstick. “All measured and ready to go.—How were your grades?”

Arthur told her, capping his list with the A-plus.

“Isn’t that marvelous! Never heard of an A-plus.—Are you the teacher’s pet?”

Arthur laughed, blushing again. “Yes, maybe.”

“You be sure and write to Columbia today, as you said you would.”

“Yep.”

“Your mother and I are going to visit Robbie this afternoon. Don’t suppose you’d like to come.”

It was utterly depressing, the thought of going to see Robbie. “No, Grandma. Tell him hello—I suppose.—I don’t see what good it would do if I went.”

Arthur felt awkward as he left the study. In his room, he looked for the letters he had had from Columbia, and found two. He had had a fear that he might have thrown them away in a fit of anger after one of his set-tos with his father. He had addressed the envelope to the Admissions Department, when he heard his mother’s car, and went out to help her unload the groceries.

There were more titbits for Robbie. Smoked oysters, a certain kind of sausage which Arthur particularly disliked, a container of vanilla ice cream big enough for him to share with his room-mate, if he had one, his mother said. During their short lunch, his grandmother mentioned his college grades, and his mother did seem pleased for a few seconds, but Arthur could see that her mind was on Robbie.

While the women were gone, Arthur wrote a first draft of a letter to Columbia’s Admissions Officer, reminding him of his admission last year and of his grant which he had had to apply to C.U. Arthur respectfully asked if he might be given a grant for the coming scholastic year. It crossed Arthur’s mind that Professor Jurgens might put in a good word for him, so he wrote a short letter to Professor Jurgens and was about to put a stamp on it when it occurred to him that he could deliver it to his house now. Arthur looked up the professor’s address, 121 Cherry Street, and drove there. Arthur put the letter into the Jurgens’ tin mailbox and turned the red flag up to indicate that something was in it.

“Hello?—Oh, Arthur!” Professor Jurgens stood on his doorstep. “Leaving me a note? Come in!”

Arthur took the letter from the box and explained his errand.

“But of course, Arthur, with pleasure. I can write it now, if you’d like to wait a minute or two.”

“Oh, no, thank you, sir.” Arthur thought it would be rather rude to stand around or sit in the living room while the professor wrote a letter about his qualifications.

“Well then, I’ll do it straightaway and send it off myself. I’m sure you’re in a hurry.” Professor Jurgens smiled, and his small blue eyes lit up behind his glasses. “Columbia’s what you’ve been wanting, I know.”

“Yes. Now it looks like I can make it—financially. If there’s room for me.”

“I should think they’ll make room,” the professor said cheerfully.

Arthur walked back to his car elated. The professor had just shaken his hand. He had also paid him high compliments. The handshaking impressed Arthur more: There was something that implied equality about that. As Arthur moved his car off, he realized that Professor Jurgens hadn’t mentioned his father’s death, or rather his father’s murder. Maybe Jurgens hadn’t even noticed the item in the newspaper. That would be typical of Jurgens!

At home, Arthur telephoned Tom Robertson to say he would be very happy to take the job.

Arthur felt in a mood to have a party that evening and realized that it might have to be a party for one, in his own head, if his mother and grandmother got back in a depressed mood, due to something new they had heard about Robbie. This was more or less the way it was.

When they returned, his grandmother disappeared for “a quick cool shower,” while his mother washed her hands and face at the sink with the aid of a paper towel. Arthur asked the news.

“They gave me a written report—if you’d like to see it.” She took a white envelope from her handbag.

Arthur began reading it, while his mother got ice cubes from the fridge.

“They didn’t suggest that he’s going to get any worse,” his mother said, “and they don’t talk about him as if he were a criminal.”

They wouldn’t, Arthur supposed. The Xeroxed one-page form he was looking at showed twenty or more check marks indicating yes or no and variations. Potentially violent was checked yes, so was obsessive, religious, introvert, asocial as opposed to gregarious and antisocial, and indifferent in regard to opposite sex as opposed to active, interested, inhibited or anti, which Arthur would have checked. There was also a Xerox of a typed page.

“He doesn’t seem unhappy,” his mother said. “Seems almost the same as ever, to tell you the truth. Reconciled, Mama called him.”

“Well—good.” Arthur was reading prose that combined jargon with clumsy English, something strangers had written about his brother whom he knew so well. Or did he?

. . . who reacted violently to a situation in his immediate family circle. The subject was unusually emotionally dependent on the victim, namely his father, and would seem to have excluded all other relationships apart from a few older men whom the subject knows outside the family and who collectively and not individually form his only social circle. Absence of guilt-feeling notable. At the same time, subject expresses regret of father’s absence now. Marked indifference as to how others in family or society evaluate his act.

His grandmother came into the kitchen. They were making tall drinks. Arthur read the last few lines with little interest, as if doing a duty. He had learned nothing new.

. . . probably respond best to well-organized environment . . . emotionally retarded. Unable to reason well in new situations (see Test 9) . . .

That evening when Arthur and his grandmother were finishing Robbie’s room, she said, “I’ve never seen anything like it. No sorrow—really. No
pity
. He just looks at us with a ghost of a smile, quite as usual, you could say.” His grandmother looked behind her at the half-open door, but Lois was sorting papers in the living room now. “It doesn’t occur to him that other people don’t accept so easily what he’s done.”

Arthur was on the ladder, and he took from his grandmother’s hands a strip of wallpaper and stuck it at the top against the paste-covered section. He didn’t want to talk about his brother, but he said finally, “And after six months?”

His grandmother gave a rare derogatory laugh. “
If
they decide to release him, the army might suit him well. Or the Marines, where it’s tougher, or so I’ve heard.”

Ritual. Drill. Like the church, Arthur thought. Robbie could again take a pride in doing the right thing. Possibly killing people instead of rabbits. Uniforms and a word of praise. Promotion.

“Take this, Arthur.”

Arthur reached for the damp rag.