The Staked Goat - Jeremiah Healy (10 page)

"That's okay, Martha," said Larry quickly.
"I ought to go up and check on the boys anyway."

"Good, good," said Martha, moving her head
a little too vigorously. He slipped out of the room, and the rest of
us went to sit down.

Martha was halfway into her chair when she popped
back up. "Oh, I'm so sorry, John. After the trip, you and . . .
You must want some coffee?"

"No, no, thank you," I said. "Martha—"

"Oh, tea then? Beer?" She stepped to the
refrigerator and pulled open the door. The little light didn't come
on, but even without it the shelves didn't look too full. "Soda?
We have plenty, really."

"Not just now, thanks."

"None for me, either," said Dale.

I was aware of Carol twisting and untwisting her
fingers. I glanced around the room. The tile around the sink was
loose in its mortar, the wallpaper was twenty years old and curling,
and only one bulb shone through the three-bulb plastic fixture over
the table. Martha's list was at right angles to me, with entries,
crossouts, and connecting arrows all over it.

Martha closed the door and came back to us. She
suddenly looked up and to the right, closing her eyes for a second,
then she sat down, said, "Excuse me," and wrote something
more on the list, drawing another arrow from it to an earlier line.

"John," said Carol in a barely civil voice,
"could I see you in the living room for a minute?"

"Sure," I said, Martha giving no indication
of noticing Carol's change of heart toward that part of the house.
Dale cocked his head at us as we left, her in the lead.

From the rear, she was perhaps five-five, with a slim
torso but wide hips. The hips would move in a sexual sway no matter
how stiffly she carried herself.

I As soon as we were in the living room, she turned
on me, her crossed arms hugging herself against the cold.

"Where the hell have you been?"

"Could we sit—"

She pigeoned her head forward. "She's been
waiting up for you. She said she couldn't go to bed without meeting
you. The man who told her her husband was dead. On the phone. Like
calling in a mail order . . ."

I considered slapping her, but she wasn't hysterical,
just mad, and I was a convenient target.

"So where have you been?" she hissed.

"In airports and on a plane. With the cold body
of an old friend."

She lost a little height and weight, sinking into
herself. She walked over to the couch and sat, leaning forward to
conserve her heat. I got my coat, put it around her shoulders. She
tugged on the lapels to tighten it around her.

"What a stupid . . . lousy . . ."

"Look, I didn't—"

"No, no," she said, sighing. "Not you.
Al's death. No reason for it. The papers here, and some cop from
Boston on the phone—"

"Murphy?" I said.

"Huh?" She looked up.

"Murphy. Was the cop's name Murphy?"

“
Oh, I don't know." She released a lapel long
enough to wipe her eyes. She had on heavy lid-liner and lipstick. The
eye makeup smeared a little.

"I didn't take the call," she said. "Dale
did. Larry was too upset to help much. I was still at work. She
reached me—" Carol broke off what she realized was irrelevant.
"It was the way they . . . the way it was done .... "

"About Martha," I said.

Carol blew out through her lips, making them flutter
without any accompanying noise. "I don't know. We've been
friends, all of us for a long time. Like pioneers, you know. We sort
of settled this block when, well, it was after my divorce, and things
weren't too fashionable here, despite all the renovations since."
She looked around the room.

"How hard up is Martha for money?" I said.
"Bottom line."

She shrugged. "You've got eyes. Most of us on
the street had to do a little bit at a time. You seen Dale and
Larry's place yet? "

"Just a walk through."

"Well, Dale got a chunk of money from an aunt
who died, so they did their place a little faster than most, but all
of us were trying, including Martha and Al. But somewhere, I dunno,
the steel glut, the recession, something must have happened. I didn't
know about the oil, when Kenny—he's my son, he's upstairs asleep
with Al Junior—when Kenny and I walked in here, it was freezing
cold. I hadn't even worn a coat, just rushed over and . . . I don't
know how they . . . I mean this is Pittsburgh, you know, February?"

"What are you two doing in here?" said
Martha, coming in, her coffee cup chattering a little against the
saucer she carried under it. Dale followed.

"Just getting acquainted, Mart," Carol
replied.

"Good, good," said Martha.

I heard Larry padding down the stairs. He appeared
with his coat over his arm. Dale, as if
on
cue, retrieved his from the chair and tugged it on.

"Oh, Dale, Larry," said Martha in a hostess
voice, "do you have to go already?"

Larry stifled a yawn. Dale gave his short laugh.

"Yes, yes. Larry has half the early shift at the
bookstore, and my first lesson is at eight o'clock." He turned
to me with a smile. "A lawyer who wants to learn how to play. To
surprise his wife." He winced as soon as he said it. Martha
seemed to notice nothing, neither the gaffe nor the wince.

"Thanks for the ride in. Ah," I said
remembering my suitcase but not feeling I could leave yet.

Dale, anticipating me, covered his faux pas by
fumbling out a house key and pressing it into my palm as we shook.
"This'll get you past the front door. No alarms. Just be sure to
put on the deadbolt and leave on the front light."

"Thanks. I'll try not to—"

Dale waved me off. Larry was already on the doorknob.
Dale walked to the door, turned with a serious look. "We'll see
you here at one-thirty tomorrow."

We all nodded and they left.

"Well, now, John," said Martha. "How
was your flight?"

"Fine," I said, "clear weather, no
delays."

"A1 hated flying, you know. Ever since the war.
He always preferred taking trains, so he could read, you know."

"Al liked to read."

"Were there trains in Vietnam?" Martha
asked. I glanced at Carol, but she was focused on Martha.

"Yes," I said. "There were a few.
Mostly Vietnamese used them. They would be crowded, unpleasant. We
never rode them."

"Funny," said Martha. "Al preferred
trains."

"Martha, has anyone—"

"Oh," she interjected, standing, "your
coffee. It must still be in the kitchen. I'll just-—"

"No, Martha," I said, trying to keep the
protest out of my voice. "I don't take coffee."

"Oh," she said, still standing, "how
about tea then? Soda? We have plenty of everything, really."

Her repetition of hospitality sounded so brittle I
thought she would break.

"No, really," I said, motioning for her to
sit down.

"Martha, we have to talk about things here. Have
you—"

"Things here," she said with a smile. "I
have a list already. I'll just be a minute."

She bustled off into the kitchen.

I looked at Carol. "How long has she . . ."

"Since your phone cal1."

I rested my chin on my chest. Dale had already told
me that. I must be more tired than I thought.

"One of us should stay with her," I said.

"I went back home and got a bag. Kenny and I
will sleep here tonight."

I stood up. Carol started to push my coat off her
shoulders. "Keep it," I said. "I'm just going across
the street."

"Macho man." She frowned. "It's
probably five below outside."

"I'll keep my hands in my pockets."

Martha came back into the room, list and pencil in
hand. "Oh, John, are you going already? Are you sure I can't get
you anything? Tea . . ."

"No, thank you. Martha, I'm fine. I'll see you
tomorrow."

"Right," she said, coming over and giving
me the same aloha peck and hug. "See you tomorrow. Sweet
dreams."

Carol followed me to the door, insisting I take the
coat. I saw slivers of china out of the corner of my eye before I
registered the breaking sound and Martha's voice.

"'Damn you!" she yelled, "damn you to
hell." She had followed through like a major league pitcher
after smashing her cup against the wall. She was yelling at the stain
running down the wall. "How could you, Al, how could you? After
all the scrimping and saving. All the . . . pain and sacrifice and .
. . no vacations and no clothes and no . . . Oh God, oh my God, oh
God, God." She sank down to her knees, then sat back on her
ankles rocking and clutching her arms around her. "Oh God, the
stain, the coffee."

Carol ran over to her and threw my coat around her.
She kneeled down and hugged her, rocking with her.

I quick stepped to the kitchen and wet a towel. I
came back in and cleaned up the wall. I could hear kids crying
upstairs. I spelled Carol while she went upstairs to quiet them.

After Carol came back down, we moved Martha to the
couch. We took turns holding and rocking with her through the night.
 
 

NINE
-•-

I FELT A STIRRING AGAINST NY RIGHT SHOULDER. I opened
my eyes.

There was a lamp still on. A full head of blond hair
was nestled into my shoulder. It looked as though it had been there
awhile. Martha.

Then I noticed the kids. They were squatting
Indian-style on the door, in front of us on the couch. They were both
wearing pajamas, the ones on the younger boy a bit small for him.

"W-w-who are you?" said the older one. He
sounded scared.

I lifted my free left hand to my lips in a silent
shush. The older boy noticed. My watch said 6:30 A.M. I raised my
chin so I could turn my head to the right without nudging Martha. My
neck was awfully stiff. Carol lay partially across Martha, sharing my
coat with her. One arm disappeared behind Martha and probably
belonged to the hand whose knuckles were pressed into my right side.
Carol's other arm was across Martha's stomach. Martha's forearms and
hands lay limply along my thigh. We were like three
puppies, huddled against the cold.

Puppies? Cold?

I exhaled and could see my breath. I looked down at
the boys. The older one hadn't been scared, he was shivering from the
cold. So was the little one.

I couldn't see any way to help them without moving
from under Martha. I started to slide out from under her. The little
one said, "M-M—Momma. Mom-maa!" Martha's head flicked up
instantly. She blinked and looked around wildly.

"It's okay, Martha," I said. "We're
just—"

She looked at me terrified. "Who are . . .where
. . . oh, oh, yes." She blinked and leaned forward, rubbing her
eyes.

Carol's arm fell behind her, and Carol slid down and
toward me, wakening with a start.

"Mom?" said the older boy.

I caught and steadied Carol. Martha spoke.

"Kenny, Al. You must be freezing. Come up here
both of you."

They scrambled up and climbed onto the couch in that
stiff mincing way kids move when they're cold. They cuddled with
their mothers under my coat. "Kenny," said Carol, rubbing
his back vigorously, "how long were you sitting down there?"

"I—I—I . . . d-don't . . . know," he
said, stammering now more from the rubbing than from the cold.

"Well," said Martha. "We'll have to
get you guys some breakfast. How does hot oatmeal sound?"

"I want some," said Kenny.

"Me too," said Al Junior.

"Me three," said me.

Martha and Carol laughed and got up with the kids.
Martha seemed O.K. Carol flashed me a real smile, a mixture of
friendship and relief.

Over breakfast in the kitchen, I found myself
watching A1 Junior. I hadn't known his father at his age, of course,
but you could see the big, brown vulnerable eyes and the curly hair,
light brownish thanks to some genetic factor from Martha. He ate
thoroughly and slowly, as if he wanted to do it right. I suppressed
the thought that maybe he hadn't had much practice of late. The
kitchen was toasty warm, the more so since we'd left the oven on last
night before slumping on the couch.

Al Junior finished his last mouthful.

"Would you like some more?" said Martha at
the stove and over her shoulder.

He shook his head. "Where's Daddy?"

Martha's shoulders went up and down once. Carol said,
"Daddy's on a trip, remember?"

Al Junior smiled and said, "Oh, yup." He
looked at me and frowned. "Who's he?"

I figured I could handle that one. "I'm a friend
of your Daddy's, from the army."