“Helen...”
“I went home afterward. My parents were out, and the apartment was very quiet, and I could feel my blood, as quiet as the apartment, my quiet, secret, guilty blood, and I waited for your call. And when you called, I cried on the phone, and I told you it was all over, but I thought only the hardship for us was over, Bud, the hardship all behind us. I didn’t think it was really all over, not all of it, not you and me. I thought we could grow from the pain, and grow from what we’d learned, and then you asked me if I was all right, and I said I was, and we talked a little more, and then I went to bed.
“My parents knew I was sick over the week end, but they didn’t know how sick. I was very sick, Buddy, too sick to think of you, and when I did think of you, I knew we were through, I knew you’d had the chance to grow up and you’d thrown it out the window. I’m still hemorrhaging, you know, but I’m going to be all right now. No postoperative care involved here, you know. You pay the man, and he kills your baby, and that’s the end of it. He leaves the murder on your conscience. You happy, Bud? This is your Christmas present. All the details you paid for. All your cast bread coming back on the wat—”
“Helen, I’m sorry I—”
She got to her feet unsteadily and went toward the door.
“It takes more than ‘I’m sorry,’ Bud, so much more. So don’t say anything. Stay there in your shell and be a little boy for the rest of your life. Helen took care of it for you, didn’t she? Sure, she did.”
“Helen...”
She stopped at the doorway, her hand on the knob.
“Helen took care of it, and now Helen doesn’t give a damn about anything any more, Bud, because Helen’s done the worst, Helen’s done murder. But don’t let that bother you. Don’t let anything bother you.”
She opened the door.
“Not even that I hate you like hell. Not even that I hate you, Bud. Don’t let anything bother you at all.”
She went out of the apartment.
“Merry Christmas,” she said dully, and then the door closed.
28
sock chorus, iv
JANUARY, 1947
Andy came home shortly after New Year’s.
He told Carol and Bud that he’d quit the Jerralds band in Sioux City, that he could no longer abide the eccentric, arbitrary rule of the leader, and they accepted his story as gospel. He certainly seemed earnest in his search for another job. He went down to the Union Floor every day, and every day there was a harried, expectant look on his face — and they didn’t know what the look meant.
When Bud got his dividend check, he called Carol and asked if Andy would be there that night. She told him yes, and he said he was coming out to Brooklyn with a surprise. He put three one-hundred-dollar bills into an envelope, sealed it, and then headed for Carol’s house.
They were sitting in the living room when he got there. Andy was staring at his shoes. Carol sat stiffly in her chair, her face cold.
“Hi,” Bud said. He went directly to Andy, and he handed him the envelope. “Here’s something I owe you,” he said.
Andy took the envelope, stared at Bud for an instant, and then said, “Thanks.”
“Boy, I had a hell of a time getting here. The lines were all tied up between Fourteenth Street and—” he stopped and looked at Carol curiously. “Is anything wrong?”
“Yes,” she said.
“What... well... what is it?”
“Ask him,” she said.
“She’s crazy,” Andy said.
“What’s the matter?”
“She’s crazy,” Andy said. “She greets me with a crazy story, and then she gets angry. Don’t listen to her.”
“What kind of a crazy story?” Bud asked.
“The real reason he’s home,” Carol said. “Ask him the real reason.”
“You left the band, didn’t you?”
“Sure, I left the band.”
“He didn’t leave the band,” Carol snapped. “I ran into Ox today. He says everyone in the music business knows about it. He told me all about it. All about why Andy left Sioux City.”
“What are you talking about?” Bud asked, puzzled.
“She doesn’t know what she’s talking about,” Andy said. “That’s the whole trouble.”
“What is it, Carol?”
“He was kicked off the band.”
“What!”
“I was not. Ox is crazy. What the hell does Ox know about what happened in Sioux City?”
“You were kicked off. Tell him why, Andy. Tell him why Jerralds fired you.”
“He didn’t fire me!”
“He fired you and a tenor man named Rog Kiner. Don’t lie, Andy. He fired you because you’re a dope addict!”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Andy said.
The room was suddenly dead silent.
Bud blinked. “What? What did you say, Carol?”
“I said he’s a dope addict. He’s been taking heroin. He’s been taking it for a long time now, ever since he met up with this Rog Kiner. He’s an addict, an addict, can you understand me?”
“No, I—”
“An addict!” Carol screamed. “Bud, for Christ’s sake, can’t you understand? He’s a drug addict.”
Bud glanced hastily toward the kitchen.
“No one’s home,” Carol said. “Don’t worry.”
“Is it true?” Bud asked Andy.
“No.”
“Then where’d Ox get it?”
“How the hell should I know?”
“Is he talking about marijuana? I know you were fooling around with—”
“Heroin,” Carol said. “Andy, Andy, what’s the matter with you? Don’t you know it’s poison?”
“No, I don’t know it’s poison. Look, what the hell is everybody so hysterical about? Do I look any different? Have I changed any?”
“You are taking drugs?”
“Yes, yes, I am,” Andy said impatiently.
“What for?”
“What the hell kind of stupid question is that? Why shouldn’t I, if I’ve got it under control?”
“Have you?”
“Of course I have. You listen to what Carol says, and you’ll go crazy.”
“But Ox—”
“Look at me. Do I look like an addict? Do I look like someone who’s hooked?”
“I don’t know what an addict looks like,” Bud admitted.
“Then how the hell can you talk about it intelligently?”