People Who Knock on the Door (8 page)

It was fine if they came over.

Arthur turned out the lights, except one, lest his father remark on his wastefulness, and locked the front door.

“Well, you kids! Come in,” said Norma, in stockinged feet. And the TV was on with its sound turned off, and a book lay open on the sofa—just as usual.

Arthur introduced Maggie.

“What pretty girls you have, Arthur!” Norma murmured.

“Girls plural?”

“Come in the kitchen. What’ll you folks have? Seven-Up, ginger ale, gin and tonic—rum—and no beer, because I’m trying to watch my weight.”

Maggie asked for a gin and tonic. Her eyes seemed to take in the entire house, while Arthur, who knew the one-story house well, simply enjoyed the change of scene, the safety it offered from the imminent arrival of his family next door. They sat in the living room. It dawned on Arthur that Norma was the least bit tipsy tonight. Forgivable, maybe, if she wasn’t going to live another whole year, as she frequently said.

“I think I’ve seen you—in the First National,” Norma said to Maggie. She gently touched her hair, which looked like translucent reddish fluff. “You’ve finished high school, too, like Arthur?”

“Yes, just now,” Maggie said.

“Arthur’s one of my favorite beaux. Hope you appreciate him, Maggie.”

Arthur laughed.

“What’ll I do when all the nice young people are gone away to college this fall,” said Norma, sadly.

“Meet some more,” Arthur said. “Gus Warylsky’s staying, going to C.U. You know him—tall blond fellow? We did some work together in your yard a couple of times.”

“Oh, yes, Gus! Another nice one, true.” Then Norma asked Maggie about her college. And what was she going to study?

Arthur didn’t listen. He was thinking about Maggie, and Monday. Maggie declined another drink, but went with Norma back to the kitchen when Norma freshened her glass. Arthur stayed where he was. Then Maggie followed Norma out of the kitchen and bent to look at a table, Norma’s dining table, in the area between kitchen and living room.

“Beautiful,” Maggie said, touching its surface with her fingertips.

“Thank you, Maggie,” said Norma. “Inherited it from an old aunt. It’s from Italy.”

Arthur had never paid any attention to the table. It was handmade and probably a few hundred years old, he realized. And Maggie liked it very much. From his armchair, Arthur looked at the X-legged table as if he had never seen it before. If Maggie liked this—one day he and Maggie would have furniture like this, he promised himself. Nothing with varnish on it, nothing of formica, nothing of chrome! Maggie wanted to leave.

“I’m supposed to be home by eleven,” Maggie said. “Thank you for the drink, Mrs. Keer.”

“I’ll come with you,” Arthur said.

“You’ll just have to walk back!”

“And so what?”

Arthur declined Norma’s invitation to come back later if he wished. He wanted to be free to stay with Maggie, because he couldn’t predict her: She might want to go to the quarry tonight. But she drove toward her house.

“What time are you taking off tomorrow—you and your mother?” Arthur asked.

“Sometime in the morning. We’re all going to the Sigma Port Hotel where Dad always stays. Then Sunday afternoon I’ll be in the hospital, because they want me to sleep there the night before. All very proper.” Maggie gave a nervous laugh.

He bit his lip. “I’ll be thinking about you every minute—Monday.”

In her driveway, he said a quick good-bye, afraid to linger, and set out at a trot for his house. Maggie had said he could telephone her at the hospital Monday afternoon, the All Saints Hospital. She knew there would be a telephone in her room.

His family was home and in the living room, all except Robbie, whose room light was on and his door open. His father was standing with a glass of beer, wearing one of his new shirts, a boldly striped blue-and-white that hung outside his trousers. It seemed to Arthur that his church activities had inspired him to buy flashier clothing. Very strange.

“Hello, Arthur, where’ve you been?” asked his grandmother.

“Went in to say hello to Norma for a few minutes.”

“And she gave you a couple of drinks I suppose?” He added to Joan, “Round the clock bar next door.”

“Oh, Richard—” said Arthur’s mother. “You had a phone call a few minutes ago, Arthur. “A girl named Vera—no, Veronica. She said there’s a party on at her house and Gus is there. She thought you might like to come over.”

Arthur sucked his lip. “No. But thanks for the message, Mom.”

Robbie entered the living room just as Arthur was about to leave it.

“Here they are, my specials,” Robbie said. He had both fists clenched and extended. “Bought five.”

These were fishhooks with double and triple barbs, which Arthur gazed at with fascination, as did the others. They lay on Robbie’s open palms, and in his enthusiasm, he had stuck his palm with one, and a little blood came, which Robbie dismissed as “nothing.”

“With this one here, a fish
can’t
get away.” Robbie said, as if it were imperative to catch a fish.

The hooks made Arthur think of the operation Maggie was going to have Monday morning. Hook it and tug it out. But from what he had read, the operation was rather a scraping. He had read about desperate women using coat hangers, however, and dying from it. Arthur did not care to look at the hooks any longer and went off to his room. He felt even slightly faint.

10

T
he sunshine early Saturday morning, beautiful as it was, struck Arthur as a curtain rising on a first act of tragedy, or doom. Maggie was going away this morning with her parents. Arthur had to keep telling himself that it was for “the best,” that it was what Maggie wanted.

He was inspired to buy Maggie a present, and the one he had in mind wasn’t a big one: a beige and blue scarf he had seen in a window the day he had visited the pawn shop. The forty- nine-dollar scarf had been out of the question then, but now it wasn’t. He left the house around 10. His mother had been ironing, his father poring over papers in his study. His grandmother had taken his mother’s car to do an errand. His grandmother could stay another week, which pleased Arthur. He cycled toward the street of the pawn shop, then to the street in which was the rather expensive shop for women’s accessories. Arthur bought the scarf. It was of heavy silk. The beige and dark blue, set in an irregular diamond-shaped pattern, were the colors of Maggie’s bedroom, the colors of her curtains, anyway, and he supposed that Maggie liked them. The salesgirl put the scarf into a pretty, flat square box. Then Arthur, with his spirits lifted a little, rode on his bike to the Chalmerston public library to change books and browse in the science shelves for an hour or so.

It was nearly noon when he got home. His grandmother was back, and Arthur’s mother told him that she and his grandmother were going to make curtains for the whole house.

“Isn’t that nice?” His mother turned with a large spoon in her hand to look at Arthur. She was making an orange cake, she had told Arthur.

“Sounds great—curtains.”

Arthur went to his room and put the box for Maggie in his second drawer, which contained folded shirts. He felt unhappy, vague about everything. Even Maggie. Would the operation somehow change her and turn her against him—next week, by Tuesday? Was his father going to put up the nearly nine thousand dollars for Columbia or not? Arthur wanted very much to speak with his mother about the Columbia money now, to find out his father’s attitude through her, if he could, but his grandmother was in the house and might overhear, and Arthur did not want to appear to be hinting for money from his grandmother. His father, at best, would make him aware of every dollar, every hundred dollars that college would cost, even though his father was now poking ten-dollar bills into the limp purple bag that they passed around in church, Arthur had noticed, instead of his former couple of singles. Columbia might be a dream. And so might Maggie, he realized.

He didn’t want to see or speak to anybody in the kitchen, his mother, grandmother, and now Robbie, back from fishing, so he left quietly by the front door and no one noticed. It was near enough to 1 to go to Shoe Repair.

That afternoon, Gus Warylsky came into the shop with a pair of shoes that needed new heels.

“Good party last night?” Arthur asked.

“Yeah. Veronica’s birthday.—Greg wrecked his car afterwards. Did you hear?”

“Where would I’ve heard?” Not the first car Greg had smashed up, Arthur knew. “Hurt anybody?”

“Broke his own nose. The girl with him was okay, but the car’s a write-off. Dumb show-off. That guy ought to have his licence taken away for a
year
.”

Arthur didn’t comment. Greg’s father had political influence in the town, and Greg would be driving again as soon as he got another car.

“Might buy some shoes, too,” Gus said, looking around.

“What kind you want for them big feet?—What size do you take, twelve? Fourteen maybe?”

“Ten and a half. I was thinking of something—for dress,” Gus said a bit diffidently.

“Wedding? Funeral maybe? Try this section, the ones on the floor. See you in a minute, Gus.”

A man with two small children was waiting for service.

A few minutes later, Arthur found just the kind of shoes that Gus had had in mind, shiny black leather that kept its shine but was not exactly patent leather and didn’t crack either, and with a buckle at the side.

“Wow, are these comfortable!” Gus said. “They don’t
look
so comfortable but they feel like house-shoes. How much?”

“Eight ninety-five.”

“It’s a deal.” Gus was admiring himself in the full-length mirror. “Snazzy,” he commented. Gus wore a limp white shirt, black cotton trousers and a leather belt that looked like a hand- me-down from a grandfather. He put his old shoes back on and gave Arthur a five-dollar bill and some singles. “Coming to the barbecue tonight?”

“Whose barbecue?”

“Nobody’s. Big collective thing at Delmar Lake. We’re all supposed to bring something like a sack of beers or franks and the entrance is one dollar. Goes to the summer recreation center at Chalmerston High. They’re trying to keep it open, you know, with a cut budget.”

Arthur wasn’t interested in the Chalmerston High recreation center. “Sounds boring. Doubt if I’ll go, but thanks for telling me.”

Gus was standing by the cash register. “What’re you doing tomorrow? I’ve got the day sort of free.”

Arthur handed him the paper bag with his new shoes. “I’m over at Mrs. DeWitt’s doing yard work. Starting around ten tomorrow morning. Didn’t I tell you I was working there lately? Gets me out of church Sunday mornings.” Arthur smiled.

“Maybe I’ll cruise over and see you. Round eleven?”

“Okay. Fine.”

“Got to fix somebody’s busted dishwasher starting nine-thirty, ten. If I get it fixed—” He waved a hand and departed.

To Arthur’s surprise, Robbie was going to the Delmar Lake barbecue that evening, and was to be picked up by his fishing pal Jeff at 7. At 6:30, Robbie was in the living room in a new red-and-white-checked shirt and new blue jeans—genuine Levi’s, standing out now like Dutchman’s-breeches—presents from Grandma, Robbie said. With his new deep voice, Robbie was at last ready to crash the teenage social set, Arthur supposed.

“You’re not going?” asked Robbie.

“Nope.—Have a good time, Robbie,” Arthur said.

Robbie was duly called for at 7, and went striding down the front walk toward the waiting car. In the new Levi’s, he reminded Arthur of a bird, maybe a swallow walking on a split tail.

“Robbie’s so pleased—going out tonight. Did you notice, Mama?” asked Lois.

“Of course I did.—It’ll be good for him.”

Arthur’s mother and grandmother were in the kitchen, his father, too, drinking what looked like Tom Collinses. Arthur made himself a gin and tonic. It seemed to Arthur that his father deliberately avoided talking to him or even looking at him, though he was smiling a lot this evening. His grandmother had persuaded his father to play golf with her tomorrow afternoon. Arthur said he would be working, when his grandmother had asked if he could join them, and Lois begged off because she wanted to check the curtain measurements again.

“If I measure them all again when I’m alone, I can be sure I didn’t make any mistakes. Or if I do make a mistake, then it’s my fault entirely.”

“Where’re you working tomorrow, Arthur?” asked his grandmother.

“Same old place. Mrs. DeWitt’s cathouse.”

“Arthur, do you
have
to use that expression?” said his mother, but she was smiling a little.

“Your grandmother’s coming to church,” his father said. “Why don’t you come along? Work in the afternoon.”

“No, it’s ten o’clock again at Mrs. DeWitt’s and she’s pretty fussy,” Arthur said as if it were a pity.

That evening, Arthur read a book he had borrowed from the public library on deep sea exploration. It had a section of color photographs, some of phosphorescent animalcules which had always fascinated Arthur. A group of scientists had dived in something like a glass submarine off the Galapagos Islands and discovered geysers of unusually warm water at great depth. The warmth of the water had enabled huge worms and foot-wide red clams to live down there, all of the life forms having adapted themselves to the terrific pressure, so that now they never came even halfway to the surface. Arthur wondered if he would ever make it to a ship like the one the book described, to be one of a team of scientists diving in glass bells to look at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean? The deep sea book was the only thing that kept his thoughts from Maggie that evening. Usually he loved daydreaming about her, but now anxiety seized him when he thought of her. Something could go wrong, and she could die.

By 10 the next morning, Arthur was at Mrs. DeWitt’s. Her pink and yellow roses were in bloom in their newly cleared beds. A big apple tree stump remained in the center of the backyard lawn, and Mrs. DeWitt had said she wanted it removed, but Arthur had dodged the task, because the two-foot wide stump would take an electric saw and a tractor to get out. Funny, Arthur thought, that though he didn’t own the place and didn’t want to, he looked on the work he had done with a certain pride. Mrs. DeWitt had told him a friend of hers had called it a “transformation.”

Arthur was inspired to tackle the toolshed for the second time, and to sort out what was usable and what wasn’t. There was an old frame barely recognizable as that of a bicycle, dried-up cans of paint, empty glass jars, and old rags full of spider webs. Arthur amassed a heap on the lawn.

Mrs. DeWitt came out with a bottle of cold ginger ale for him. “That’s a step in the right direction,” she said, meaning the heap of junk. “I’ll speak to the garbage man, give him a tip, and he can carry that off.”

Arthur was working without his shirt. Sweat ran down his sideburns and his neck. “Thank you, ma’am,” said Arthur, taking the ginger ale bottle. Mrs. DeWitt suddenly reminded him of an old-fashioned striped mattress. Today her bulk was shrouded in a blue and white striped dress, plain as a nightgown; she wore house-slippers on her bare feet, and her white hair looked as if she hadn’t touched it since she got out of bed.

“Have some lunch with me today, if you’d like to, Arthur. Got some cold fried chicken and potato salad. Ice cream, too.”

That sounded rather good, worth putting up with the cat smell for. Then he could work another hour or so in the afternoon. “Nice of you. I’ll say yes.”

Arthur was sweeping the toolshed floor with a worn broom when Gus’s old four-door car came up the driveway. Arthur raised his right arm in greeting.

Gus got out of his car and came over, looking around. “Give you a hand with something?” he asked, looking from the heap of junk to the back of Mrs. DeWitt’s house, where at the moment she was not to be seen.

They decided to tackle the tree stump. With Gus pitching in, it became fun, maybe impossible to get out today, but that wouldn’t matter. There was a pick-axe in the shed and an old saw that was usable. They took turns with the pick-axe, getting enough earth out for the other to attack a root with the saw. Gus removed his T-shirt. His skin was pale and there were freckles on his back, fine as cinnamon powder. His gold-framed glasses, which looked so delicate, stayed on his nose despite his exertions.

“Bet this so-and-so’s fifty years old if it’s a day.” Gus suddenly jumped on the stump at an angle, causing a root to give a little, and Gus bounced backward onto the grass. He rolled over and got up.

Arthur took the saw to a root. “How was the barbecue last night?”

“You didn’t miss much. Reggie Dewey had some hard stuff and he was whooping it up with Roxanne and they both fell off the boat dock—dancing. Then we all went swimming in the dark. Big deal.”

Arthur kept on sawing, shaking his head now and then to get the gnats away from his eyes.

“Since my car’s here,” Gus said, “want to run some of this junk off? I know a dump near here.”

Gus’s car had a hatch door. They loaded most of the junk in and dumped it at the place Gus knew, then returned to the stump with renewed enthusiasm, because it was nearly out. The last thinner roots Arthur was able to clip, and then with a few pushes and pullings they got the stump out and onto the lawn. Panting, triumphant, Arthur began raking the displaced soil back.

“Well, howdy-do?” said Mrs. DeWitt’s voice nearby, startling both of them. “You’ve got
that
thing out!”

Mrs. DeWitt’s joy was gratifying. Gus assured her he was “just passing the time.” Arthur introduced them. Gus’s face was pink and damp with sweat. He put his T-shirt back on.

“And all that junk cleaned up and gone!—It’s twelve-thirty and I was going to ask you to come in, Arthur. Lunch is ready. Maybe you’d like a bite with us, too?” she asked Gus.

“No, thank you, ma’am, my folks expect me before one. I just came by to see how Art was doing.”

She insisted that Gus come in to wash his hands and face and have a cold drink. Arthur was already washing at the hose tap, letting the water run over his chest and back.

Gus went hesitantly into the kitchen, out of curiosity, Arthur felt, because he had told Gus about the cats. The oilcloth-covered table looked quite nice with its glasses of iced tea, plates, and green paper napkins and a big bowl of potato salad that a black and white cat had been licking at when they walked in. Gus washed his hands at the sink at Mrs. DeWitt’s suggestion. She made another glass of iced tea.

“Got the fried chicken in the oven to keep it away from the cats,” she said.

The telephone rang. Mrs. DeWitt went into her living room to answer it.

“Arthur?” Mrs. DeWitt called. “It’s for you. Your father.”

Arthur was surprised. “Hello?”

“Arthur, I’d like you to come home as soon as possible. Now.” His father sounded grim.

“What’s the matter? Something happen to Robbie?”

“Robbie’s fine. Just get yourself home.”

“Mrs. DeWitt asked me to lunch here, and I intended to work this afternoon,” Arthur said.

“Will you come home or shall I come and get you?”

Arthur stood up straighter. “Can I speak to Mom?”

“No. I’m giving you orders.”

“R-r-right,” Arthur said with equal grimness and put the telephone down. He went back into the kitchen. “I’m supposed to go home right away. Sorry about lunch, Mrs. DeWitt.”

“Something happen at home?” Gus asked.

“No! I don’t know what’s the matter.”

“What a shame!” Mrs. DeWitt said.