The Winter of Our Discontent (30 page)

I didn’t always use Major Charley’s method, but on a day like this Thursday, when I knew my attention should be as uninterrupted as possible, I awakened when the day opened its door a crack and I visited my family as Major Charley had.

I visited them in chronological order, bowed to Aunt Deborah. She was named for Deborah the Judge of Israel and I have read that a judge was a military leader. Perhaps she responded to her name. My great-aunt could have led armies. She did marshal the cohorts of thought. My joy in learning for no visible profit came from her. Stern though she was, she was charged with curiosity and had little use for anyone who was not. I gave her my obeisance. I offered a spectral toast to old Cap’n and ducked my head to my father. I even made my duty to the untenanted hole in the past I knew as my mother. I never knew her. She died before I could, and left only a hole in the past where she should be.

One thing troubled me. Aunt Deborah and old Cap’n and my father would not come clear. Their outlines were vague and wavery where they should have been sharp as photographs. Well, perhaps the mind fades in its memories as old tintypes do—the background reaching out to engulf the subjects. I couldn’t hold them forever.

Mary should have been next but I laid her aside for later.

I raised Allen. I could not find his early face, the face of joy and excitement that made me sure of the perfectability of man. He appeared what he had become—sullen, conceited, resentful, remote and secret in the pain and perplexity of his pubescence, a dreadful, harrowing time when he must bite everyone near, even himself, like a dog in a trap. Even in my mind’s picture he could not come out of his miserable discontent, and I put him aside, only saying to him, I know. I remember how bad it is and I can’t help. No one can. I can only tell you it will be over. But you can’t believe that. Go in peace—go with my love even though during this time we can’t stand each other.

Ellen brought a surge of pleasure. She will be pretty, prettier even than her mother, because when her little face jells into its final shape she will have the strange authority of Aunt Deborah. Her moods, her cruelties, her nervousness are the ingredients of a being quite beautiful and dear. I know, because I saw her standing in her sleep holding the pink talisman to her little breast and looking a woman fulfilled. And as the talisman was important and still is to me, so it is to Ellen. Maybe it is Ellen who will carry and pass on whatever is immortal in me. And in my greeting I put my arms around her and she, true to form, tickled my ear and giggled. My Ellen. My daughter.

I turned my head to Mary, sleeping and smiling on my right. That is her place so that, when it is good and right and ready, she can shelter her head on my right arm, leaving my left hand free for caressing.

A few days before, I snicked my forefinger with the curved banana knife at the store, and a callusy scab toughened the ball of my fingertip. And so I stroked the lovely line from ear to shoulder with my second finger but gently enough not to startle and firmly enough not to tickle. She sighed as she always does, a deep, gathered breath and a low release of luxury. Some people resent awakening, but not Mary. She comes to a day with expectancy that it will be good. And, knowing this, I try to offer some small gift to justify her conviction. And I try to hold back gifts for occasions, such as the one I now produced from my mind’s purse.

Her eyes opened, hazed with sleep. “Already?” she asked, and she glanced at the window to see how near the day had come. Over the bureau the picture hangs—trees and a lake and a small cow standing in the water of the lake. I made out the cow’s tail from my bed, and knew the day had come.

“I bring you tidings of great joy, my flying squirrel.”

“Crazy.”

“Have I ever lied to you?”

“Maybe.”

“Are you awake enough to hear the tidings of great joy?”

“No.”

“Then I will withhold them.”

She turned on her left shoulder and made a deep crease in her soft flesh. “You joke so much. If it’s like you’re going to cement over the lawn—”

“I am not.”

“Or you’re starting a cricket farm—”

“No. But you do remember old discarded plans.”

“Is it a joke?”

“Well, it’s a thing so strange and magic that you are going to have to buttress your belief.”

Her eyes were clear and wakeful now and I could see the little trembles around her lips preparing for laughter. “Tell me.”

“Do you know a man of Eyetalian extraction named Marullo?”

“Crazy—you’re being silly.”

“You will find it so. Said Marullo has gone from here for a time.”

“Where?”

“He didn’t say.”

“When will he be back?”

“Stop confusing me. He didn’t say that either. What he did say and, when I protested, what he ordered was that we should take his car and go on a happy trip over the holiday.”

“You’re joking me.”

“Would I tell a lie that would make you sad?”

“But why?”

“That I can’t tell you. What I can swear to from Boy Scout oath to papal oath is that the mink-lined Pontiac with a tank full of virgin gasoline awaits your highness’s pleasure.”

“But where shall we go?”

“That, my lovely insect-wife, is what you are going to decide, and take all day today, tomorrow, and Saturday to plan it.”

“But Monday’s a holiday. That’s two full days.”

“That’s correct.”

“Can we afford it? It might mean a motel or something.”

“Can or not, we will. I have a secret purse.”

“Silly, I know your purse. I can’t imagine him lending his car.”

“Neither can I, but he did.”

“Don’t forget he brought candy Easter.”

“Perhaps it is senility.”

“I wonder what he wants.”

“That’s not worthy of my wife. Perhaps he wants us to love him.”

“I’ll have to do a thousand things.”

“I know you will.” I could see her mind plowing into the possibilities like a bulldozer. I knew I had lost her attention and probably couldn’t get it back, and that was good.

At breakfast before my second cup of coffee she had picked up and discarded half the pleasure areas of eastern America. Poor darling hadn’t had much fun these last few years.

I said, “Chloe, I know I’m going to have trouble getting your attention. A very important investment is offered. I want some more of your money. The first is doing well.”

“Does Mr. Baker know about it?”

“It’s his idea.”

“Then take it. You sign a check.”

“Don’t you want to know how much?”

“I guess so.”

“Don’t you want to know what the investment is? The figures, the flotage, the graphs, the probable return, the fiscal dinkum, and all that?”

“I wouldn’t understand it.”

“Oh, yes you would.”

“Well, I wouldn’t want to understand it.”

“No wonder they call you the Vixen of Wall Street. That ice-cold, diamond-sharp business mind—it’s frightening.”

“We’re going on a trip,” she said. “We’re going on a trip for two days.”

And how the hell could a man not love her, not adore her? “Who is Mary—what is she?” I sang and collected the empty milk bottles and went to work.

I felt the need to catch up with Joey, just to get the feel of him, but I must have been a moment late or he a moment early. He was entering the coffee shop when I turned into the High Street. I followed him in and took the stool beside him. “You got me into this habit, Joey.”

“Hi, Mr. Hawley. It’s pretty good coffee.”

I greeted my old school girl friend. “Morning, Annie.”

“You going to be a regular, Eth?”

“Looks like. One cuppa and black.”

“Black it is.”

“Black as the eye of despair.”

“What?”

“Black.”

“You see any white in that, Eth, I’ll give you another.”

“How are things, Morph?”

“Just the same, only worse.”

“Want to trade jobs?”

“I would, just before a long weekend.”

“You’re not the only one with problems. People stock up on food too.”

“I guess they do. I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Picnic stuff, pickles, sausages, and, God help us, marshmallows. This a big one for you?”

“With the Fourth on Monday and nice weather, you kidding? And what makes it worse, God Almighty feels the need of rest and recreation in the mountains.”

“Mr. Baker?”

“Not James G. Blaine.”

“I want to see him. I need to see him.”

“Well, try to catch him if you can. He’s jumping like a quarter in a tambourine.”

“I can bring sandwiches to your battle station, Joey.”

“I might just ask you to.”

“I pay this time,” I said.

“Okay.”

We crossed the street together and went into the alley. “You sound lowy, Joey.”

“I am. I get pretty tired of other people’s money. I got a hot date for the weekend and I’ll probably be too pooped to warm up to it.” He nudged a gum wrapper into the lock, went in, saying, “See you,” and closed the door. I pushed the back door open. “Joey! You want a sandwich today?”

“No thanks,” he called out of the dim, floor-oil-smelling interior. “Maybe Friday, Saturday sure.”

“Don’t you close at noon?”

“I told you. The bank closes but Morphy don’t.”

“Just call on me.”

“Thanks—thanks, Mr. Hawley.”

I had nothing to say to my forces on the shelves that morning except “Good morning gentlemen—at ease!” At a few moments before nine, aproned and broomed, I was out front, sweeping the sidewalk.

Mr. Baker is so regular you can hear him tick and I’m sure there’s a hairspring in his chest. Eight fifty-six, fifty-seven, there he came down Elm Street; eight fifty-eight, he crossed; eight fifty-nine—he was at the glass doors, where I, with broom at carry arms, intercepted him. “Mr. Baker, I want to talk to you.”

“Morning, Ethan. Can you wait a minute? Come on in.”

I followed him, and it was just as Joey said—like a religious ceremony. They practically stood at attention as the clock hand crossed nine. There came a click and buzzing from the great steel safe door. Then Joey dialed the mystic numbers and turned the wheel that drew the bolts. The holy of holies swung stately open and Mr. Baker took the salute of the assembled money. I stood outside the rail like a humble communicant waiting for the sacrament.

Mr. Baker turned. “Now, Ethan. What can I do for you?”

I said softly, “I want to talk to you privately, and I can’t leave the store.”

“Won’t it wait?”

“ ’Fraid not.”

“You ought to have some help.”

“I know it.”

“If I get a moment I’ll drop over. Any word about Taylor?”

“Not yet. But I’ve put out some lines.”

“I’ll try to get over.”

“Thank you, sir.” But I knew he would come.

And he did, in less than an hour, and stood about until the present customers were gone.

“Now—what is it, Ethan?”

“Mr. Baker, with a doctor or a lawyer or a priest there’s a rule of secrecy. Is there such a thing with a banker?”

He smiled. “Have you ever heard a banker discuss a client’s interests, Ethan?”

“No.”

“Well, ask sometime and see how far you get. And besides that custom, I’m your friend, Ethan.”

“I know. I guess I’m a little jumpy. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a break.”

“A break?”

“I’ll lay them out face up, Mr. Baker. Marullo’s in trouble.”

He moved close to me. “What kind of trouble.”

“I don’t know exactly, sir. I think it might be illegal entry.”

“How do you know?”

“He told me—not in so many words. You know how he is.”

I could almost see his mind leaping about, picking up pieces and fitting them together. “Go on,” he said. “That’s deportation.”

“I’m afraid so. He’s been good to me, Mr. Baker. I wouldn’t do anything to hurt him.”

“You owe yourself something, Ethan. What was his proposition?”

“It’s not merely a proposition. I had to put it together out of a lot of excited gobbledegook. But I gathered that if I had a quick five thousand in cash, I could own the store.”

“That sounds as if he’s going to run for it—but you don’t know that.”

“I don’t know anything really.”

“So there’s no chance of a collusion charge. He didn’t tell you anything specific.”

“No, sir.”

“Then how did you arrive at that figure?”

“Easy, sir. That’s all we’ve got.”

“But you might get it for less?”

“Maybe.”

His quick eye went over the store and valued it. “If you are right in your assumption you’re in a good bargaining position.”

“I’m not much good at that.”

“You know I don’t favor under-the-table deals. Maybe I could talk to him.”

“He’s out of town.”

“When will he be back?”

“I don’t know, sir. Remember, it’s only my impression he might drop in, and if I had cash, he might deal. He likes me, you know.”

“I know he does.”

“I’d hate to think I was taking advantage.”

“He can always get it from someone else. He could get ten thousand easy from—anybody.”

“Then maybe I’m overhopeful.”

“Now, don’t think small. You have to look after number one.”

“Number two. It’s Mary’s money.”

“So it is. Well, what did you have in mind?”

“Well, I thought you could maybe draw some papers up and leave the date and the amount blank. Then I thought I’d draw the money Friday.”

“Why Friday?”

“Well, again it’s only a guess, but he did say something about how everybody’s away over the holiday. I kind of figured he might show up then. Don’t you have his account?”