The Black House (4 page)

“Can I have it for old Bill? He adores it.” When Michael came back into the living room with the pink slice on a saucer, Phyllis said:

“I bet Mr. Dickenson wrecks his car on the way home. That's often the way it is.” She whispered suddenly, remembering her manners, “Because he feels
guilty
.”

Portland Bill bolted his salmon with brief but intense delight.

Tom Dickenson did not wreck his car.

Not One of Us

I
t wasn't merely that Edmund Quasthoff had stopped smoking and almost stopped drinking that made him different, slightly goody-goody and therefore vaguely unlikable. It was something else. What?

That was the subject of conversation at Lucienne Gauss's apartment in the East 80s one evening at the drinks hour, seven. Julian Markus, a lawyer, was there with his wife Frieda, also Peter Tomlin, a journalist aged twenty-eight and the youngest of the circle. The circle numbered seven or eight, the ones who knew Edmund well, meaning for most of them about eight years. The others present were Tom Strathmore, a sociologist, and Charles Forbes and his wife, Charles being an editor in a publishing house, and Anita Ketchum, librarian at a New York art museum. They gathered more often at Lucienne's apartment than at anyone else's, because Lucienne liked entertaining and, as a painter working on her own, her hours were flexible.

Lucienne was thirty-three, unmarried, and quite pretty with fluffy reddish hair, a smooth pale skin, and a delicate, intelligent mouth. She liked expensive clothes, she went to a good beauty parlor, and she had style. The rest of the group called her, behind her back, a lady, shy even among themselves at using the word (Tom the sociologist had), because it was an old-fashioned or snob word, perhaps.

Edmund Quasthoff, a tax accountant in a law firm, had been divorced a year ago, because his wife had run off with another man and had therefore asked for a divorce. Edmund was forty, quite tall, with brown hair, a quiet manner, and was neither handsome nor unattractive, but lacking in that spark which can make even a rather ugly person attractive. Lucienne and her group had said after the divorce, “No wonder. Edmund
is
sort of a bore.”

On this evening at Lucienne's, someone said out of the blue, “Edmund didn't used to be such a bore—did he?”

“I'm afraid so.
Yes!
” Lucienne yelled from the kitchen, because at that moment she had turned on the water at the sink in order to push ice cubes out of a metal tray. She heard someone laugh. Lucienne went back to the living room with the ice bucket. They were expecting Edmund at any moment. Lucienne had suddenly realized that she wanted Edmund out of their circle, that she actively disliked him.

“Yes, what
is
it about Edmund?” asked Charles Forbes with a sly smile at Lucienne. Charles was pudgy, his shirt front strained at the buttons, a patch of leg often showed between sock and trousers cuff when he sat, but he was well loved by the group, because he was good-natured and bright, and could drink like a fish and never show it. “Maybe we're all jealous because he stopped smoking,” Charles said, putting out his cigarette and reaching for another.

“I admit
I'm
jealous,” said Peter Tomlin with a broad grin. “I know I should stop and I damned well can't. Tried to twice—in the last year.”

Peter's details about his efforts were not interesting. Edmund was due with his new wife, and the others were talking while they could.

“Maybe it's his wife!” Anita Ketchum whispered excitedly, knowing this would get a laugh and encourage further comments. It did.

“Worse than the first by far!” Charles avowed.

“Yes, Lillian wasn't bad at all! I agree,” said Lucienne, still on her feet and handing Peter the Vat 69 bottle, so he could top up his glass the way he liked it. “It's true Magda's no asset. That—” Lucienne had been about to say something quite unkind about the scared yet aloof expression which often showed on Magda's face.

“Ah, marriage on the rebound,” Tom Strathmore said musingly.

“Certainly was, yes,” said Frieda Markus. “Maybe we have to forgive that. You know they say men suffer more than women if their spouses walk out on them? Their egos suffer, they say—worse.”

“Mine would suffer with
Magda
, matter of fact,” Tom said.

Anita gave a laugh. “And what a name, Magda! Makes me think of a lightbulb or something.”

The doorbell rang.

“Must be Edmund.” Lucienne went to press the release button. She had asked Edmund and Magda to stay for dinner, but they were going to a play tonight. Only three were staying for dinner, the Markuses and Peter Tomlin.

“But he's changed his job, don't forget,” Peter was saying as Lucienne came back into the room. “You can't say he has to be clammed up—secretive, I mean. It's not
that
.” Like the others, Peter sought for a word, a phrase to describe the unlikability of Edmund Quasthoff.

“He's stuffy,” said Anita Ketchum with a curl of distaste at her lips.

A few seconds of silence followed. The apartment doorbell was supposed to ring.

“Do you suppose he's happy?” Charles asked in a whisper.

This was enough to raise a clap of collective laughter. The thought of Edmund radiating happiness, even with a two-month-old marriage, was risible.

“But then he's probably never been happy,” said Lucienne, just as the bell rang, and she turned to go to the door.

“Not late, I hope, Lucienne dear,” said Edmund coming in, bending to kiss Lucienne's cheek, and by inches not touching it.

“No-o. I've got the time but you haven't. How are
you
, Magda?” Lucienne asked with deliberate enthusiasm, as if she really cared how Magda was.

“Very well, thank you, and you?” Magda was in brown again, a light and dark brown cotton dress with a brown satin scarf at her neck.

Both of them looked brown and dull, Lucienne thought as she led them into the living room. Greetings sounded friendly and warm.

“No, just tonic, please . . . Oh well, a smidgen of gin,” Edmund said to Charles, who was doing the honors. “Lemon slice, yes, thanks.” Edmund as usual gave an impression of sitting on the edge of his armchair seat.

Anita was dutifully making conversation with Magda on the sofa.

“And how're you liking your new job, Edmund?” Lucienne asked. Edmund had been with the accounting department of the United Nations for several years, but his present job was better paid and far less cloistered, Lucienne gathered, with business lunches nearly every day.

“O-oh,” Edmund began, “different crowd, I'll say that.” He tried to smile. Smiles from Edmund looked like efforts. “These boozy lunches . . .” Edmund shook his head. “I think they even resent the fact I don't smoke. They want you to be like them, you know?”

“Who's them?” asked Charles Forbes.

“Clients of the agency and a lot of the time
their
accountants,” Edmund replied. “They all prefer to talk business at the lunch table instead of face to face in my office. 'S funny.” Edmund rubbed a forefinger along the side of his arched nose. “I have to have one or two drinks with them—my usual restaurant knows now to make them weak—otherwise our clients might think I'm the Infernal Revenue Department itself putting—honesty before expediency or some such.” Edmund's face again cracked in a smile that did not last long.

Pity
, Lucienne thought, and she almost said it. A strange word to think of, because pity she had not for Edmund. Lucienne exchanged a glance with Charles, then with Tom Strathmore, who was smirking.

“They call me up at all hours of the night too. California doesn't seem to realize the time dif—”

“Take your phone off the hook at night,” Charles' wife Ellen put in.

“Oh, can't afford to,” Edmund replied. “Sacred cows, these worried clients. Sometimes they ask me questions a pocket calculator could answer. But Babcock and Holt have to be polite, so I go on losing sleep . . . No, thanks, Peter,” he said as Peter tried to pour more drink for him. Edmund also pushed gently aside a nearly full ashtray whose smell perhaps annoyed him.

Lucienne would ordinarily have emptied the ashtray, but now she didn't. And Magda? Magda was glancing at her watch as Lucienne looked at her, though she chatted now with Charles on her left. Twenty-eight she was, enviably young to be sure, but what a drip! A bad skin. Small wonder she hadn't been married before. She still kept her job, Edmund had said, something to do with computers. She knitted well, her parents were Mormons, though Magda wasn't. Really wasn't, Lucienne wondered?

A moment later, having declined even orange or tomato juice, Magda said gently to her husband, “Darling . . .” and tapped her wristwatch face.

Edmund put down his glass at once, and his old-fashioned brown shoes with wing tips rose from the floor a little before he hauled himself up. Edmund looked tired already, though it was hardly eight. “Ah, yes, the theater—Thank you, Lucienne. It's been a pleasure as usual.”

“But such a short one!” said Lucienne.

When Edmund and Magda had left, there was a general “Whew!” and a few chuckles, which sounded not so much indulgent as bitterly amused.

“I really wouldn't like to be married to that,” said Peter Tomlin, who was unmarried. “Frankly,” he added. Peter had known Edmund since he, Peter, was twenty-two, having been introduced via Charles Forbes, at whose publishing house Peter had applied for a job without success. The older Charles had liked Peter, and had introduced him to a few of his friends, among them Lucienne and Edmund. Peter remembered his first good impression of Edmund Quasthoff—that of a serious and trustworthy man—but whatever virtue Peter had seen in Edmund was somehow gone now, as if that first impression had been a mistake on Peter's part. Edmund had not lived up to life, somehow. There was something cramped about him, and the crampedness seemed personified in Magda. Or was it that Edmund didn't really like
them
?

“Maybe he deserves Magda,” Anita said, and the others laughed.

“Maybe he doesn't like us either,” said Peter.

“Oh, but he does,” Lucienne said. “Remember, Charles, how pleased he was when—we sort of accepted him—at that first dinner party I asked Edmund and Lillian to here at my place. One of my birthday dinners, I remember. Edmund and Lillian were beaming because they'd been admitted to our charmed circle.” Lucienne's laugh was disparaging of their circle and also of Edmund.

“Yes, Edmund did try,” said Charles.

“His clothes are so boring even,” Anita said.

“True. Can't some of you men give him a hint? You, Julian.” Lucienne glanced at Julian's crisp cotton suit. “You're always so dapper.”

“Me?” Julian settled his jacket on his shoulders. “I frankly think men pay more attention to what women say. Why should I say anything to him?”

“Magda told me Edmund wants to buy a car,” said Ellen.

“Does he drive?” Peter asked.

“May I, Lucienne?” Tom Strathmore reached for the scotch bottle which stood on a tray. “Maybe what Edmund needs is to get thoroughly soused one night. Then Magda might even leave him.”

“Hey, we've just invited the Quasthoffs for dinner at our place Friday night,” Charles announced. “Maybe Edmund
can
get soused. Who else wants to come?—Lucienne?”

Anticipating boredom, Lucienne hesitated. But it might not be boring. “Why not? Thank you, Charles—and Ellen.”

Peter Tomlin couldn't make it because of a Friday night deadline. Anita said she would love to come. Tom Strathmore was free, but not the Markuses, because it was Julian's mother's birthday.

It was a memorable party in the Forbeses' big kitchen which served as dining room. Magda had not been to the penthouse apartment before. She politely looked at the Forbeses' rather good collection of framed drawings by contemporary artists, but seemed afraid to make a comment. Magda was on her best behavior, while the others as if by unspoken agreement were unusually informal and jolly. Part of this, Lucienne realized, was meant to shut Magda out of their happy old circle, and to mock her stiff decorum, though in fact everyone went out of his or her way to try and get Edmund and Magda to join in the fun. One form that this took, Lucienne observed, was Charles's pouring gin into Edmund's tonic glass with a rather free hand. At the table, Ellen did the same with the wine. It was especially good wine, a vintage Margaux that went superbly with the hot-oil-cooked steak morsels which they all dipped into a pot in the center of the round table. There was hot, buttery garlic bread, and paper napkins on which to wipe greasy fingers.

“Come on, you're not working tomorrow,” Tom said genially, replenishing Edmund's wine glass.

“I—yam working tomorrow,” Edmund replied, smiling. “Always do. Have to on Saturdays.”

Magda was giving Edmund a fixed stare, which he missed, because his eyes were not straying her way.

After dinner, they adjourned to the long sun parlor which had a terrace beyond it. With the coffee those who wanted it had a choice of Drambuie, Bénédictine or brandy. Edmund had a sweet tooth, Lucienne knew, and she noticed that Charles had no difficulty in persuading Edmund to accept a snifter of Drambuie. Then they played darts.

“Darts're as far as I'll go toward exercising,” said Charles, winding up. His first shot was a bull's-eye.

The others took their turns, and Ellen kept score.

Edmund wound up awkwardly, trying to look amusing, they all knew, though still making an effort to aim right. Edmund was anything but limber and coordinated. His first shot hit the wall three feet away from the board, and since it hit sideways, it pierced nothing and fell to the floor. So did Edmund, having twisted somehow on his left foot and lost his balance.

Cries of “Bravo!” and merry laughter.

Peter extended a hand and hauled Edmund up. “Hurt yourself?”

Edmund looked shocked and was not laughing when he stood up. He straightened his jacket. “I don't think—I have the definite feeling—” His eyes glanced about, but rather swimmily, while the others waited, listening. “I have the feeling I'm not exactly well liked here—so I—”