People Who Knock on the Door (33 page)

“You kids have what you want. I’m going upstairs,” Betty said.

Maggie made a gin and tonic for Arthur. She wore a pale green shirtwaist dress, white sandals, and looked especially pretty, Arthur thought. The gold bracelet he had given her was still on her right wrist. Had she been in bed with Mr. Hargiss, wearing that? Arthur thought at once, he had been in bed with Francey, wearing Maggie’s chain around his neck; Francey had even praised it. Did that make them even? Did it matter?”

“What’re you frowning about?” Maggie asked.

“I dunno.”

Arthur was prepared for Mr. Hargiss to come down the stairs at any moment, but decided not to ask if he was here, not to say or ask anything about him. But the minutes went by and Mr. Hargiss did not come down the stairs. Maggie talked about Radcliffe and how much she liked her sociology course which she had been able to take in her second semester. She told him about a field project she and another girl student had been given. They had visited employment agencies in Cambridge and had made a survey of their successful and unsuccessful clients with regard to age and education with graphs to illustrate the findings.

“What about race as a factor?”

“I know!” Maggie laughed. “Wasn’t supposed to
be
a factor in this particular survey.”

A vision of a half-black baby in Irene’s arms danced before his eyes. How much did Maggie know of the story Irene was putting out?

“I
am
sorry about your father, Arthur.”

Arthur rolled his glass between his hands. “Well, I’m not—terribly.”

“Don’t say
that
!”

Arthur hesitated. “Well, look what he did. To you—to us. The way he acted. You think I appreciated that?” He blinked. “You’ve no idea how much pleasanter life is at my house now. You ought to come over and see. Two rooms done over. Mom and I’ve got space! Peace and quiet—”

“Oh, yes, Robbie’s gone.”

Arthur gave a laugh. Again he glanced toward the staircase, but maybe Mr. Hargiss really wasn’t here. “Gone, yes, till December at least. He’s at a place called Foster House near Indi. Full of juvenile delinquents like him. Up to age eighteen.”

Maggie asked what was going to happen after December. Probation anyway, then maybe the Marines, Arthur told her.

“When would you like me to push off?” he asked.

“No hurry. I haven’t got a date tonight.” She was sitting on the opposite sofa, forearms crossed on her knees, and frequently she glanced at the carpet, as if she were shy with him.

“Then maybe you’d like to go out to dinner somewhere.”

Arthur took her to Mom’s Pride. The air-conditioning was on, and the jukebox sounded fine. Heartened by the first half of his hamburger, Arthur broke his resolution and asked:

“And how is Mr. Hargiss?”

“Oh—all right—I suppose.”

“You came home sooner than you said you would. That’s why I asked.”

“Well, true, I am back earlier.”

He shouldn’t ask anything more just now, Arthur thought. Maggie wouldn’t like being quizzed. “Feel like dancing?”

It was better, dancing. Arthur could relax. During a slow song, he held her in his arms. The magic was still there, for him. And in Maggie? He was not sure.

When they were sitting in the booth again, he said, “Did your mother say anything to you about Irene Langley?”

“No.—Is she that blond woman—”

“Yes. The one I told you about last summer. Goes to my father’s church. Well—you haven’t heard. I may as well tell you before you hear it from someone else. She’s pregnant—and she’s saying my father is responsible.”

Maggie’s brows frowned. “Wha-at? Saying it to your mother?”

Arthur nodded. “And to me, too. So when Robbie heard—this, he really turned against my dad. That’s when he shot him, when my dad—”

“Oh, Arthur, I didn’t know
that
!”

“Yes—well—” He nervously downed the last half inch of his beer. “And now—I mean, not now, but when he was alive, it seems my father admitted it to my brother.” There it was, and Maggie was going to start drifting away tonight, now. She’d be polite. But she would be going to the Arctic.

“It’s not true, is it?—Or is it?”

“Maybe it is true. My dad was seeing Irene quite often, not—” He began again. “I don’t mean he ever stayed the night with this old bag, but he went to see her the same as he went to see a few other people who go to that church. Irene works at a diner. She’s an ex-prostitute, really awful to look at.” Arthur scowled at the table.

“Well, do you believe it?” Maggie’s tone didn’t sound as earnest or heavy as he had feared.

“I have to. Yes.—What a family! Brother in jail, father in—in disgrace. Baby’s due this month. Hope it’s half black, as I always want to say to Mom and don’t.”

Maggie’s gaze rested on her empty glass that she slid back and forth on the table. She declined Arthur’s offer of another scotch and water.

“I thought I should tell you all this, because if I didn’t—it’d be like seeing you under false pretenses. Something like that.” If she wanted to tell her mother, he thought, there was nothing he could do about that, and maybe her mother had already heard it from somewhere and had chosen not to say anything to Maggie?

Arthur wanted another beer and got up to get it. As he was standing waiting at the busy bar counter, he realized that he couldn’t burst out tonight with a cheerful speech about what he wanted to do, what he intended to make of himself by the time he was twenty-three. A scientist! He meant to have a doctorate degree by twenty-three or so and an interesting job somewhere, and if a fixed job were not interesting enough then, he’d be on some exploratory trip or doing research work where he wished. Respected among his colleagues! Dreams! But why couldn’t he make them come true? Yet how could he say any of this tonight without sounding as if he were boasting, full of hot air, trying to compensate for what he had just told Maggie? The image of a hot volcano came to his mind. That was himself! He grabbed his beer and tossed down a dollar bill. He even recognized the volcano picture: It was one he remembered in a book of von Humboldt’s voyages that his grandmother had given him when he was about ten.

They lingered on till midnight at Mom’s Pride and talked of other things. Arthur looked for a change in Maggie, because of what he had told her, but he did not see any. Could it be that the sins of the father weren’t always visited upon the son? When Arthur drove Maggie home, she didn’t ask him to come in, but Arthur didn’t mind.

“Kiss you good night?” he whispered. It was like a yes or no question about Mr. Hargiss. He kissed her. And a second time. He went off to his car, sure that he would see her again.

Had Maggie parted with Mr. Hargiss? Maggie wasn’t the type to announce outright that she’d given someone the brush-off. He’d have to court her again, even if she had. He rather liked the idea.

32

“To see Robert Alderman,” Arthur said to a guard in the front hall of Foster House.

“Your name? . . . Can you sign in here, please?”

Arthur signed his name in a ledger, and the guard filled in the date and time. The guard looked into the paper bag Arthur carried, then stepped to one side of a doorway through which Arthur had to walk. This was a metal-detector device, and it registered with a buzz: Arthur had his car keys and some change in the left-side pocket of his Levi’s. That was all right.

“Straight ahead. Tell the other guard down there.”

A second guard was silhouetted in an open doorway. Arthur walked down a barren and rather wide hall of the one-story building. There were rooms to right and left, half of them with their doors hanging open. His mother had been urging him to “pay a visit” to Robbie, and here he was at 10:30 on a Sunday morning when he would rather have been sleeping till about now, because he had been out late with Maggie last night.

“Alderman? He’s out there somewhere, I think,” said the second armed guard. “If not, he’s in his room.” He looked at a list. “That’s room seventy-two.”

Arthur walked out into the hot sun. At least thirty boys were wielding spades and hoes in a rather vast expanse of land. Arthur saw rows of tomato plants and half-grown cabbages. The boys wore khaki shorts or trousers, and some were stripped to the waist. At a glance Arthur could see that the boys weren’t knocking themselves out at their labors. He hesitated, then realized that a blond-looking head and skinny body really belonged to Robbie. Arthur walked on a narrow path between rows. The big yard was bounded by a heavy wire fence with a top part that slanted inward, composed of barbed wire.

“Hey, Robbie!”

Robbie looked up, then leaned on his hoe. “Yeah?—Hi.”

“Just visiting.—How are things?”

Robbie tossed his hoe down with an air of annoyance and walked toward Arthur. His first step hit the center of a young cabbage, mashing its leaves. Evidently Robbie was allowed to walk off, because he did, and Arthur followed him back into the hall. Robbie paused at a drinking fountain and rubbed a handful of water over his face.

“Room’s here,” said Robbie, heading toward a certain door.

The room walls were of the same pale blue as the corridor. There were two narrow iron beds, a single table in the center of the room, two shelves that held books covered in transparent plastic. Robbie sat down on his bed.

“Mom gave me these to give you,” Arthur said, extending the paper bag he had been carrying. He knew what was in it, a hunk of fruit cake wrapped in wax paper, two issues of
Newsweek
, chocolate bars.

Robbie rummaged quickly in the bag, frowning, and put the items out on his bed. His movements reminded Arthur of those of an animal.

“Where’s your roommate?”

“He has kitchen duty this morning.”

“You get along with him all right?”

Robbie shrugged. “He bores me.” He was avoiding looking at Arthur.

“Looking forward to getting out in December?”

Robbie gave his brother a frowning glance. “Yeah, maybe. But I don’t want to go back to that kooky high school again.”

“Don’t want to live home again? Why not?” Arthur realized that he was merely curious about this.

Robbie put on his clammed-up look. He stood up suddenly and folded his arms. “Those high school kids are boring dopes. I’m not going back to
that
, no
sir
. They don’t understand anything. They’re zombies.”

“I see.—Well, don’t try running away from here. They’ll just catch you and put you in for longer.” Arthur realized that he was trying to sound friendly and chummy and that he didn’t feel in the least friendly and chummy towards the sullen-faced figure in front of him. “Any messages for Mom?”

“Nope. Can’t think of any.”

Arthur moved toward the door, which was closed. “Well, what do you want to do, Robbie? Once you’re out in December. Got any cheerful ideas?’

Robbie shrugged again. “Why should I tell you?—I don’t care where I am. Maybe I’ll join the Marines. That outfit—”

“Can you get in at sixteen?”

“Or maybe I’ll live in the boat house on Delmar Lake all year round. I got friends there, Bill and Jeff and all the others. I don’t have to go back to school if I don’t want to. I don’t give a shit if I’m on probation, okay, but they can’t stop me from living where I want to.”

Arthur thought they could, but didn’t say anything.

“My friends’ll stick with me. I could work for
them
down at the lake—or anywhere. Once I’m out of this shithouse.” Robbie swung an arm to indicate the walls, the whole building.

Three loud bongs sounded in the hall.

“Is that for lunch?” Arthur asked.

“Church in five minutes,” Robbie said with the same sourness.

The door behind Arthur burst open, and a dark-haired boy in khaki trousers and shirt with the tails hanging out hurtled past Arthur and yanked out the bottom drawer of a small chest.

“Fucking kay dee, fucking
gar-r-bage
!” the boy yelled as if to himself, snatched off his dirty shirt and shook out a fresh one. Then he noticed Arthur and looked utterly amazed.

“Just taking off,” Arthur said. “Robbie—take care of yourself, will you?” He was afraid of a sneer from both of them if he told Robbie to keep in line so he’d get out sooner. “Bye for now.”

Now the hall was noisy with adolescent boys murmuring, laughing, moving in the opposite direction from Arthur. Organ music quivered from somewhere.

“Hey!—Sir!”

Arthur had to sign the ledger again to get out. It was a pleasure to start the car and head for home.

When Arthur got to the house, his mother had just come back from church and was still in her Sunday finery, including a dark blue straw hat which Arthur rather liked.

“How was church?” Arthur asked with deliberate cheer.

His mother gave him a sidelong look, as if to say, “Same as ever.” She relit the oven, then removed her hat gently. “And you saw Robbie? How was he?”

“Fine. All tanned. Working in the vegetable garden there—till it was time for church.”

“I hope he was friendly at least.”

“Ha! Well—he remembered me, I suppose.”

“But what did he say?—What’s his attitude?”

“Mom, do you think he talks to me?—He doesn’t want to go back to high school here.” Arthur took a can of beer from the fridge. “Maybe you know that. He seemed pretty definite about it.”

His mother was opening the top of a new box of salt. “Did you talk to Mr. Dillard?”

Arthur felt both guilty and annoyed. He hadn’t wanted to look up Mr. Dillard and ask how Robbie was “doing.” “No, Mom. I didn’t.—Want me to do something?”

“Make a little salad, if you will.—I spoke to Jane after church. She said Irene’s in the hospital.”

Arthur felt a small shock. He had realized that his mother was nervous and had supposed it was because of something she had heard at the First Church of Christ Gospel. “Does that mean it’s going to be born today? Or is it already?”

“Certainly likely, I’d say,” replied his mother, inspecting the oven.

Was his mother expecting a call from someone, telling her whether the baby was boy or girl, black or white? Arthur wasn’t going to ask. The rest of today was ruined too, he realized, and it was worse for his mother than for him. He at least had a bright spot to look forward to, a date with Maggie at 5 p.m. to do a little work in her backyard, and as far as he knew, she was free for the evening. Maggie was working on a project for her sociology course, collaborating with another Radcliffe girl who lived in Chicago, and they were not to communicate by telephone, according to the rules of this assignment, but by letter, and emerge with a “coordinated study.” This occupied some of Maggie’s days.

Arthur poured the dressing over the lettuce leaves. Their meal was ready and Arthur took up the carving knife and fork. He felt ravenous. He sought for something comforting or cheering to say to his mother.
I hope it’s born dead
, he wanted to say, and couldn’t.

At 5, Arthur was at Maggie’s house, in Levi’s and tennis shoes and an old denim shirt. He had brought a clean shirt which he left in the car. Betty Brewster was sitting in a sunny corner of the big backyard, writing letters. She wore shorts and a halter and broad-brimmed hat, because there was still a strong sun.

After ten minutes, Arthur removed his shirt. He was clearing a strip with a fork and a spade, lifting out pieces of turf which Maggie was carrying to another spot. Daffodils were to go in where Arthur was digging, but it was still too early to plant them.

“You saw your brother this morning?” Maggie asked.

“Yeah,” Arthur said, smiling, and he plunged his fork in. “Do you mind if I don’t talk about that?”

“No-o,” Maggie drawled with her air of patience. “But I’m interested. What kind of a place is it?—Was he friendly?”

“Mom asked the same thing. I wouldn’t call him friendly. Not to me.—Place is like a prison.” Arthur paused to wipe a gnat out of his eye.

“You don’t have to work so fast, Arthur!” Maggie lifted more turf pieces into a broad basket carrier.

Betty brought out cold lemonade and cookies. “I’m sure this won’t spoil anybody’s appetite for dinner. My, Arthur, that’s progress!”

He had dug a strip a foot wide half the length of the backyard, almost, and furthermore its line was straight. Arthur was rather proud of the black streak of freshly opened earth.

An hour or so later, under the Brewsters’ shower which Arthur knew well, Arthur washed even his hair and turned the water on cold at the last. He felt very well. And how was Irene feeling, he wondered, as he pulled the wadded towel across his torso and examined his chest muscles and biceps in the mirror. Was even now his half-brother or half-sister breathing the air of this world, the same air that he was? That was really crazy, yet maybe true! Arthur drew on a pink oxford cloth shirt with button-down collar.

It was Mom’s Pride again for dinner. Maggie had liked the place. Gus and Veronica were due to turn up later. Gus was at Veronica’s house this evening, looking at her mother’s sewing machine, which he was supposed to fix if he could. Maggie and Arthur ate hamburgers and french fries.

“And Mr. Hargiss,” Arthur began casually. “You’re going to see him again when you go back east?”

Maggie took a breath. “I’ll see him—because he takes a chemistry course at Radcliffe.”

“I meant—” Arthur was sure she knew what he meant. This was their third date since Maggie had returned, the second having been a film, and he hadn’t felt like asking about Hargiss that evening. “I meant, are you in love with him?”

“No. Not any more.”

“Oh.” But she had been, of course. “You mean you broke it off?”

Maggie looked down at her nearly finished plate. “Well, yes. I didn’t like his family so much.” She looked up at Arthur. “I thought they were bossy. We had to do certain things certain days, Larry and I. Everything planned days in advance. There was a yacht club there—all very nice—but it was a little—interfering. I could see it was going to go on forever—like that.”

“Stuffy.”

“Not stuffy the way they dressed or anything. It was what we had to do.”

Arthur felt relieved. Mr. Hargiss had been eliminated.

Later, when he was dancing with Maggie and feeling especially confident, Arthur had an impulse to tell her that today, maybe this evening, Irene’s baby would be born. But he decided against it, because he wouldn’t be able to say it lightly enough. Or perhaps the fact was, it wasn’t a light or funny subject. It was better to look into Maggie’s smiling eyes as they danced some distance apart, to be in another world with her alone, with all the gyrating figures around them nothing more than part of the walls.

“There’s Gus!” Maggie said.

Arthur looked behind him and raised an arm.

There was room for the four of them in the booth. Gus and Veronica ordered beers, Maggie and Arthur salad and more beers.

“Got the sewing machine fixed?” Arthur asked.

“No,” said Gus, hanging his head.

“You
did
,” said Veronica. “I swear it was working when we left the house, Arthur! I don’t know what Gus is talking about.”

“See if it works tomorrow. I’m not convinced,” Gus said.

“Perfectionist!” said Veronica. “Tell me about Radcliffe, Maggie. I’m dying to hear details.” She brushed her long hair back and leaned forward expectantly.

“Details of what?” Maggie laughed.

“The rooms, for instance. Do you have to be—I mean, how many times a week can you go out in the evening, say?”

Arthur gave a laugh.

“All you want, I suppose,” Maggie said. “Unless your grades are pretty bad. Then they might—”

“What time do you have to be
in
at night?” Gus asked in a girlish way.

“Oh, stop it,” said Veronica. “I mean, the rooms, yes. Private rooms?”

“Thinking of going there?” asked Gus.

Each girl had her own room, Maggie said. Veronica wanted to know how big they were. And how about the bathrooms?

“How about ’em?” said Gus. “Does a maid come with each room?”

“Telephone?” asked Arthur. “Color TV?”

“Alderman!—Anyone here named
Alderman
?”

Arthur heard a man’s voice yelling this through the music and chatter, and he stood up to see better. “Here! Yep!” His car, he thought first, but how would they know his name from his car?

“’Scuse me,” he said to the others.

“Telephone call,” the busy waiter said to Arthur, and went off. “First booth on the right.” He pointed.

Arthur walked to a corner near the front of the place where there were two booths, one occupied, the other with its receiver off the hook. “Hello?”

“Hello, Arthur,” said his mother in a breathless voice. “You said you might be there, so—”

“Well, Mom, I
am
here.”

“Irene’s just had a baby girl. I thought I should tell you.”

“I see. Well.” Arthur was pressing a palm against one ear in order to hear.

“Bob Cole phoned me around seven, just before the Griffins got here. Irene’s at the United Memorial Hospital.”