“You’ve already told me the ending.”
“That’s not this program. This is about a horse and there’s no water tank in it, just a creek like the one behind Mary Martha’s house.”
But Virginia had already gone. Jessie turned up the sound on the television set. Horses were thudding furiously across the desert as if they were trying to get away from the loud music that pursued them. Above the horses’ hoofs and trumpets, Jessie could hear Virginia laughing out on the patio. She sounded very gay.
(17)
The pain began, as it usually did, when Charlie was a couple of blocks away from his house. It started in his left shoulder and every heartbeat pushed it along, down his arm and up his neck into his head until he was on fire. Alone in his room with no one to bother him, he could endure the pain and even derive some satisfaction from not taking anything to relieve it. But tonight Ben was waiting for him. Questions would be asked — some trivial, some innocent, some loaded — and answers to them would be expected. It would be at least an hour before he was allowed to go into his room and be by himself to plan what he would say to Jessie.
He stopped for a red light and was reaching into the glove compartment for the bottle of aspirin he kept there when he remembered that he wasn’t driving the green coupé any more. There was no bottle of aspirin in this one, only a map of Los Angeles, unfolded and torn, as if someone had crammed it into the glove compartment in a fit of impatience.
The light turned green. He drove past the house. Ben’s car was parked in the driveway, looking, to Charlie, exactly like its owner, not new anymore but sturdy and clean and well taken care of, with no secret trouble in the engine.
The drug store was around the corner, one block down. There was no one in the store but Mr. Forster, the owner, who was behind the prescription counter reading the evening newspaper.
“Well, it’s you, Charlie.” Mr. Forster took off his spectacles and tucked them in the pocket of his white jacket. “Long time no see. How are you?”
“Not so good, Mr. Forster.”
“Yes, I see that. Yes, indeed.” Mr. Forster was the chief diagnostician of the neighborhood, even for people who had their own doctors. Out of respect for his position his customers always addressed him as Mr. Forster and so did his wife. He took his responsibilities very seriously, subscribing to the A.M.A. journal and Lancet, and reading with great care the advertising material that accompanied each new drug sample.
“A bit feverish, aren’t you, Charlie?”
“I don’t think so. I have a headache. I’d like some aspirin.”
“Any nausea or vomiting?”
“No.”
“What about your eyes? Are they all right?”
“Yes.”
“Had your blood pressure checked recently?”
“No. I just want some—”
“It sounds like a vascular headache to me,” Forster said, nodding wisely. “Maybe you should try one of the new reserpine compounds. By the way, did the man find your house?”
“What... what man?”
“Oh, he was in here a while ago, nice-looking gray-haired fellow around fifty. Said he’d lost your address.”
“I haven’t been home yet tonight.”
“Well, he may be there right now, waiting for you.”
“Not for me,” Charlie said anxiously. “For Ben. People come to the house to see Ben, not me.”
“Isn’t your name Charles Gowen?”
“You know it is, Mr. Forster.”
“Well, Charles Gowen is who he wanted to see.” Forster took a bottle of aspirin off a shelf. “Shall I put this in a bag for you?”
“No. No, I’ll take one right away.” Charlie reached for the bottle. His hands were shaking, a fact that didn’t escape Forster’s attention.
“Yes, sir, if I were you, Charlie, I’d have my blood pressure checked. A niece of mine had a vascular headache and reserpine fixed her up just like magic. She’s a different woman.”
Charlie unscrewed the cap of the bottle, removed the cotton plug and put two aspirins in his mouth. The strong bitter taste spread from his tongue all the way to his ears and his forehead. His eyes began to water so that Mr. Forster’s face looked distorted, like a face in a fun-house mirror.
“Let me get you a glass of milk,” Forster said kindly. “You should always take a little milk with aspirin, it neutralizes the stomach acids.”
“No, thank you.”
“I insist.”
Forster went into the back room and came out carrying a paper cup full of milk. He stood and watched Charlie drink it as though he were watching a stomach fighting a winning battle over its acids.
“I can understand your being nervous,” Forster said, “at this stage of the game.”
“What game?”
“The marriage game, of course. The word’s gotten out how you’re engaged to a nice little woman that works in the library. Marriage is a great thing for a man, believe me. You might have a few qualms about it now but in a few years you’ll be glad you took the big step. A man stays single just so long, then people begin to talk.” Forster took the empty paper cup from Charlie’s hand and squeezed it into a ball. “Mind if I say something personal to you, Charlie?”
Charlie didn’t speak. The milk seemed to have clotted in his throat like blood.
Forster mistook silence for assent. “That old trouble of yours, you mustn’t let it interfere with your happiness. It’s all over and done with, people have forgotten it. Why, it was so long ago you were hardly more than a boy. Now you’re living a clean, decent life, you’re just as good as the next man and don’t you be thinking otherwise.”
Please stop, Charlie thought. Please stop him, God, somebody, anybody, make him be quiet. It’s worse than listening to Ben. They don’t know, neither of them, they don’t know—
“Maybe it’s not in such good taste, dragging it up like this, but I want you to understand how I feel. You’re going to do fine, Charlie. You deserve a little happiness. Living with a brother is all right when it’s necessary, but what the heck, a man needs a wife and family of his own. When’s the big day?”
“I don’t know. Louise — it’s her decision.”
“Don’t leave all the deciding to the lady, Charlie. They like to be told once in a while, makes them feel feminine. You want me to charge the aspirin?”
“Yes.”
“Right. Well, all the best to you and the little lady, Charlie.”
“Thank you, Mr. Forster.”
“And bear in mind what I said. The town’s getting so filled up with strangers that only a few old-timers like myself know you ever had any trouble. You just forget it, Charlie. It’s water under the bridge, it’s spilled milk. You ever tried to follow a drop of water down to the sea? Or pour spilled milk back into the bottle?”
“No. I—”
“Can’t be done. Put that whole nasty business out of your head, Charlie. It’s a dead horse, bury it.”
“Yes. Good-bye, Mr. Forster.”
Charlie began moving toward the door but Forster moved right along beside him. He seemed reluctant to let Charlie go, as if Charlie was a link with the past, which for all its cruelties was kinder than this day of strangers and freeways and super drugstores in every shopping center.
“I’ve got to go now, Mr. Forster. Ben’s waiting for me.”
“A good man, that Ben. He was a tower of strength to you in your time of need, always remember that, Charlie. He’s probably quite proud of you now, eh? Considering how you’ve changed and everything?”
Charlie was staring down at the door handle as though he wished it would turn of its own accord and the door would open and he could escape. Ben’s not proud of me. I haven’t changed. The horse isn’t dead, the milk is still spilling, the same drop of water keeps passing under the bridge.