The Kind One (20 page)

“I quickened my pace, and reached the other side of the field without further incident. A stile was there.”

“What’s a stile?” I said.

“Steps over a fence. Beyond the fence I saw the road. I climbed up the stile, but as I crossed over onto the other side I felt a strange sensation in the pit of my stomach and a ripple of dizziness. But it all lasted just a moment and then I was fine.

“I was puzzled though to find myself, not back on the road, but in another field. I set off down another path, and then I saw before me another large twisted thorn tree, and then I realized, with some consternation, that I
wasn’t
walking across another field but was walking back into the
same
field. I turned around, went back to the stile, crossed over the fence again and—well I’m sure you can guess that the experience repeated itself exactly.

“I decided to give up the whole idea of a short cut and to depart the field at the same place I entered. The day seemed preternaturally still as I crossed the field again. I heard no buzz of bug nor chirp of bird. The thorn still seemed to be vaguely gesticulating to me as I walked by.

“I was relieved to see the gate again, and I opened it and passed through. But again I felt the dizziness and the strange feeling in my stomach, and I was dismayed but not altogether surprised to find myself still on the wrong side of the gate and trapped within the field.

“Then I heard human voices. A rickety cart was approaching on the road, pulled by a decrepit donkey. In the cart were an old man and a young boy. I called out to them, but they didn’t seem to hear me. I called out louder, and jumped up and down and waved my arms. The donkey glanced my way, but the man and the boy just continued to talk to each other, and I watched the cart trundle on down the road and out of sight.

“At this point I began to panic. It was, as I said, very hot. I felt thirstier than I’d ever felt in my life. And I feared that I would be a prisoner here forever, a poor damned creature roaming from one side of the field to the other ceaselessly seeking an exit that didn’t exist. I turned toward the thorn, which was rising up dark and terrible against the blazing blue sky, and I cupped my hands around my mouth and shouted toward it: ‘I’m sorry I didn’t believe in you! I believe in you now! Please let me go!’ And then I tried the gate again, but unfortunately the result was the same.”

A mangy brown and white beagle with an oozing sore on its leg had been limping along behind us; now I gave it the soggy remnants of my cone, which it chomped up ecstatically. “But why didn’t you just turn your coat inside out?” asked Sophie. “Like Kitty said.”

“I wasn’t wearing a coat, but I did do this: I took off every article of clothing I was wearing, turned it inside out, and put it back on.”

Sophie giggled. “What happened?”

“It worked like a charm. I passed through the gate, and found myself back out on the road, whereupon I resumed my journey to the stream. Taking the long way around, of course.”

“Were you still wearing your clothes inside out?” said Sophie.

“No, of course not. I undressed and then redressed properly.”

Sophie gave Dulwich a squinty, sideways look. “Did all that really happen?”

He tousled her hair. “I only lie to myself, Sophie. Never to others.”

We walked by some kids who’d erected forts made out of lawn furniture and were throwing firecrackers at each other. Today was the Fourth of July.

“Danny and I have a surprise for you when we get back,” said Dulwich.

“Really? What kind of surprise?”

“It’s a birthday present,” I said.

“But my birthday was two weeks ago.”

“Uh oh. Looks like we screwed up, Dulwich.”

“Indeed. We’ve made a dreadful error. What do you think we should do?”

“Take it back to the store, I guess. Get a refund.”

“Yes, I do believe that’s the correct course of action.”

“You better not,” said Sophie grimly.

In Dulwich’s bungalow Sophie tore the wrapping paper and ribbons off a box then lifted up the top. She pushed aside some tissue paper and said: “Shoes.”

“Tap-dancing shoes,” I said.

“‘Split clog’ tap-dancing shoes,” said Dulwich. “The very best one can get, according to the helpful young lady who sold them to us. Beechwood soles and hollow wooden heels that produce a very special sound.”

Sophie looked beside herself with excitement as she took her mary janes off and slipped on the gleaming red tap shoes.

“Where’d you get them?”

“This store called Capezio’s,” I said. “It’s on Hollywood and Vine. The salesgirl said Bojangles Robinson gets all his shoes there.”

Tinker Bell jumped into the shoe box, and started clawing at the tissue paper. Sophie began clattering around the room in her shoes.

“We guessed at the size,” said Dulwich. “Do they fit all right?”

“Perfect. I can run away to New York and get famous now. Like Ruby Keeler.”

“No running away,” I said.

“You can come too. And Dulwich. And Tinker. We can all run away together.”

“That charming sound you’re producing,” said Dulwich, “reminds me that I really ought to sit down in front of my typewriter and get to work.”

“How’s your story going?” I said.

He sighed. “Worse and worse, I’m afraid. The patient barely has a pulse.”

“’Scuse me, Tinker,” said Sophie as she evicted the cat from the box then gathered up the wrapping paper and the ribbons and her old shoes.

“It’s a wonderful present,” she said. “It’s the most wonderful present I’ve ever gotten.”

Later I sat on my davenport in the living room as the day ended and the dusk seeped in. I’d bought a new Philco radio with some of my gambling winnings, and
Betty and Bob
was playing on it, but I wasn’t really listening. I was trying to remember where I’d left my life like a man tries to remember where he’s left his hat.

I heard someone walking down the sidewalk, then Sophie appeared at the door. She squinted in through the screen.

“Danny? You in there?”

“Yeah. Come in.”

“How come you’re sitting in the dark? Why don’t you turn on a light?”

“Why should I?”

“I don’t know.”

She walked around, looking the room over like she’d never seen it before. Then she came over to the davenport, perched on the edge of it. She fidgeted, sighed, tugged at her hair, knocked her knees together. Finally she said: “Thanks again. For the shoes.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I always have so much fun when I’m with you guys. Everybody’s always laughing and joking around. How come everybody can’t be like that all the time?”

“Beats me. Things just don’t work that way, I guess.”

Sophie chewed on her lower lip. Betty and Bob blabbered on.

“Knock knock,” said Sophie.

“Who’s there?”

“Shelby.”

“Shelby who?”

“Shelby coming around the mountain when she comes,” sang Sophie.

“That’s pretty funny.”

“Yeah. Do you know any jokes?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Danny?”

“Yeah?”

“Would you mind if…I sat closer to you?”

I was a little surprised, but said: “No. Of course not.”

Then she nestled up against me, and I lifted up my arm and put it around her shoulders, and she put her arm across my chest. I could feel her heart tapping fast against her ribs. There seemed to be nothing to her. When you hold a baby bird in the palm of your hand it seems to have no weight, it’s like a handful of feathery air, and it felt kind of that way to hold Sophie.

“You remember that brush you gave me?” she asked.

“The pink one?”

“No, the polkadot one, you dummy. How many brushes have you given me? Yes, the pink one.”

“What about it?”

“Every night before I go to bed, I brush my hair with it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” And then: “I like you
so much.
”

“Well, I like you too.”

“A lot?”

“A whole lot.”

She sighed; then her grubby-fingernailed hand began to rub my chest, then it slid down to the front of my pants, and she started feeling around for my you-know-what.

I was shocked. I shoved her hand away. I said: “What the hell are you doing?!”

We both sat bolt upright, and stared at each other, both aghast.

“But—I thought—you wanted me to.”

“Are you nuts? You’re just a kid!”

“Okay. Quit yelling at me. You bastard.”

Eyes aglitter with tears, she jumped up and ran out the door. Mrs. Dean had recently replaced the old slack rusted spring on the screen door with a brand-new shiny tightly coiled spring, and it yanked the door shut with a sound like a pistol shot.

   I DREAMT KID McCoy and I were at Custer’s Last Stand. We could see the Indians attacking the soldiers on a grassy hill a couple of hundred yards away, but the Indians hadn’t spotted us yet.

I saw a phone booth. I went in it and tried to call home, but nobody answered. Then I saw some of the Indians leaving the scene of the massacre and riding our way. They were nearly naked and covered in blue paint with yellow, lightning-like zigzags and white spots like hail and they were making terrifying war whoops.

I stepped out of the phone booth. “Run, Kid!” I yelled, and the old champ took off in a scampering, monkey-like fashion as spears and arrows whizzed past and barely missed him. I turned and ran too as the Indians bore down upon me, the grass was up around my knees, it was like running through water, then I woke up. It was ten past ten in the morning.

I sat at the kitchen table in my underwear for a while, brooding over a cup of Folgers; then I called up Wendell Nuffer.

He seemed surprised, but glad, to hear from me. He agreed to meet me at one o’clock for lunch at Jack’s Steak House.

It was on Santa Monica Boulevard, on the corner of Formosa. We sat in a red leather booth, and drank ice-cold martinis while we waited for our steaks.

Nuffer had been a wreck the last time I’d seen him, but today he seemed relaxed and happy.

“You’re looking good, Mr. Nuffer.”

“Why, thank you, kind sir.” He patted his stomach. “I’ve lost some weight, on doctor’s orders. I’ve cut down considerably on my drinking, the present martini notwithstanding. In short, I’m feeling, as they say, ‘in the pink,’ for the first time in many years.”

“Why the change?”

He musingly fingered his martini glass.

“When I came back from Lake Arrowhead, I thought about driving to Pasadena and jumping off Suicide Bridge. But then I decided, to hell with the scandalmongers, Nuffer’s number wasn’t yet up. Now gradually I’ve come to realize it was all for the best. I’d set myself upon a dark and shameful path. I was keeping company with known criminals. I have a wonderful wife and four beautiful children, but I was willing to risk everything for an alluring piece of tail. And I have to tell you I find myself missing Miss Gilbertson not a whit. Well—perhaps a whit.”

He laughed ruefully, and lifted the martini to his lips.

“I plan to leave city government, Danny, in the very near future, and go into some relatively honest line of work—say, graverobbing or safe-cracking. Or have you heard of the Running Board Bandit? He’s an enterprising fellow who jumps on the running boards of cars with women drivers in them and threatens them with a knife and steals their jewelry and purses. I believe this town is big enough for two Running Board Bandits. And I’m sure my doctor would approve; I’d be working all day in the open air and getting plenty of exercise chasing down cars.”

Our steaks arrived, carried by a cute little package named Latona.

“You fellas need anything else?” she said. “Another drink maybe?”

“I’m going to be virtuous, Latona,” said Nuffer, “and just have a glass of iced tea.”

“Same for me,” I said.

“Okey dokey,” smiled Latona; now Nuffer watched her wiggle off with a look of deep regret.

“It’s hard to be virtuous, Danny. So very hard.”

He knifed into his T-bone as I shook some ketchup out on my french fries.

“Thanks for meeting me, Mr. Nuffer. I guess you’re wondering why I called.”

He forked a juicy pink triangle of meat into his mouth.

“As far as I’m concerned, we’re friends, Danny. You don’t have to have a reason to call me. But I assumed you had one.”

“It’s like this. A lot of things don’t add up. With me, I mean.”

“Like what, for example?”

“Well, like my nickname. Two Gun Danny Landon. I got it because a few years ago myself and some of the other guys robbed this gambling ship—”

“The
Monfalcone.
Yes, I know the story. You jumped up on a table and blazed away at your enemies with a gun in each hand.”

“Of course I don’t remember any of this. I don’t remember anything before I got beat up last year.”

Nuffer wiped his mouth with his napkin, and gave me a careful, appraising look.

“So what doesn’t add up?”

“I’ve figured out that I don’t like guns, Mr. Nuffer. They’re loud, and they’re scary, and when I saw what a bullet did to Goodlooking Tommy’s head it just about made me sick. I can’t imagine standing on a table shooting at people like some kind of maniac, like Jimmy Cagney or somebody.”

Coincidentally, at just that moment I saw a movie star slide into a nearby booth—except it wasn’t Jimmy Cagney, it was Gene Autry, the singing cowboy.

“What else doesn’t add up?” said Nuffer.

“I keep getting this creepy feeling that everybody else knows something that I don’t. Like everybody’s in on the joke but me. Dick Prettie, for instance. Whenever I ask him something about my past, he always gets kind of uncomfortable, and shifty-eyed, and tries to change the subject.”

Latona came back with our iced teas. “Guess who just came in!” she said in a loud excited whisper.

“Gene Autry?” I said.

“And he’s sitting at one of
my
tables!” She stole a glance at Autry; he was wearing a western shirt and a polkadot bandanna, and had a soft, friendly face. “Isn’t he a dreamboat?”

“Perhaps you’ll ride off to old Santa Fe with him,” said Nuffer. “As he sings to you. On the back of his golden horse.”