“What in hell are you talking about?”
“I’m not, I’m not brave and forthright and honest”
Ben picked up the letter and read it, his eyebrows raised, one corner of his mouth tucked in.
Charlie was watching him anxiously. “What’s it mean, Ben?”
“It means,” Ben said, “that she wants to see you again.”
“But why?”
“Because she likes you. Don’t try to figure it out. Just enjoy it. She likes you, she wants to see you again. You want to see her too, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“All right, then. Go and do it. Right after supper.”
“I will,” Charlie said. “I have to set her straight. I can’t let her go on thinking all those good things about me when they aren’t true.”
Ben took it very quietly, without arguing or making a fuss or giving a lecture. But after supper, when the dishes were done, he changed back into the brown gabardine suit he wore to the cafeteria he managed. Then he told Charlie, “It’s such a nice night I think I’ll take a little walk to the library.”
“It’s foggy out, Ben.”
“I like fog.”
“It’s bad for your bronchial tubes.”
“I’m going with you,” Ben said heavily, “because I know that if I don’t, you’ll louse things up for yourself. You may, anyway; in fact, you probably will. But the least I can do is try and stop you.”
The rest of that night was never quite clear in Charlie’s mind. He remembered the fog and Ben walking grayly beside him, in absolute silence. He remembered how, at the library, he’d stood beside the newspaper rack while Ben and Louise talked at Louise’s desk. Every now and then they would glance, sympathetically and kindly, over at Charlie, and Charlie knew that between the two of them they were creating a fictional character, a person who didn’t exist, called Charlie Gowen; a brave, forthright, honest man, too modest to admit his good qualities; every maiden’s dream, every brother’s joy.
The scene in the library had taken place a year ago. Since then Louise had become almost part of the family, but Charlie often felt that there had been no real change during the year. He was still standing apart, across a room, unrecognized, unidentified, while Ben and Louise talked, adding more touches to their creation, the Charlie doll. They were so proud of their doll that Charlie did his best to copy it.
Charlie located the package of cardboard skeletons and took them up to the front of the building. Mr. Warner’s secretary hadn’t returned from her lunch hour and Warner had just left for his, so the office was empty. This was the first time Charlie had been in the office when it was empty and it gave him an odd but not unpleasant feeling that he was doing something wrong. It was like entering a private bedroom while the owner slept, exposed, defenseless, and searching through the contents of pockets and purses and bureau drawers and suitcases.
To make room for the package on Mr. Warner’s desk, Charlie had to move the telephone. As he touched it, an impulse seized him to call Louise. He dialed the number of the library and asked for the reference department.
“Louise? It’s me, Charlie.”
“Hello, Charlie.” She seemed, as she always did, very happy to hear his voice. “Your timing is good. I just this minute arrived at work.”
“Louise, would you do me a small favor?”
“Consider it done.”
“Would you look up an address in the city directory and tell me who lives there? It’s 319 Jacaranda Road. You don’t have to do it immediately. Just make a note of the name and give it to me tonight when you come over.”
“What’s the mystery?”
“Nothing. I mean, it’s not a mystery, I’ll tell you about it tonight.”
“Are you feeling all right, Charlie?”
“Sure I am. Why?”
“You sound kind of excited.”
“No. No, I don’t,” Charlie said, and hung up.
She must be crazy, he thought. Why should I be excited? What have I got to be excited about?
(4)
Mary Martha Oakley was on the window seat in the front room, playing with her cat, Pudding. Her feelings toward the cat were ambivalent. Sometimes she loved him as only a solitary child can love an animal. At other times she didn’t want to see him because he symbolized all the changes that had taken place in her life during the last two years. Her mother had brought the cat home from the pet shop on the same day her father had moved out of the house.
“See, lamb? It’s a real live kitten, just what you’ve always wanted.”
Where had her father gone?
“Look at his adorable eyes and his silly little nose. Isn’t he adorable?”
Was he coming back?
“Let’s think of a real yummy name for him. How about Pudding?”
After the cat there were other changes: new locks on the doors and the downstairs windows and the garage, a private phone with an unlisted number that Mary Martha wasn’t allowed to tell anyone, even her teachers at school or her best friend, Jessie. Furniture began to disappear from the upstairs rooms, silver and china from the dining room, pictures from the walls, and all the pretty bottles from the wine cellar. The cook and the gardener stopped coming, then the cleaning woman, the grocery boy, the once-a-month seamstress, the milkman. Kate managed everything herself, and did her own shopping at a cash-and-carry supermarket.
Pudding was the only one of these changes that Mary Martha liked. Into his furry and uncritical ear she whispered her confidences and her troubled questions, and if Pudding couldn’t give her any answers or reassurance, he at least listened, blinking his eyes and now and then twitching his tail.
“Mary Martha, I’ve been calling you.”
The child raised her head and saw her mother standing in the doorway looking hot and fretful as she always did when she worked in the kitchen. “I didn’t hear you.”
“It’s all right, it’s not important. I just—” I just wanted to talk to somebody. “I just wanted to tell you that dinner will be a little late. It’s taking the hamburgers longer to thaw than I reckoned it would... Stop letting the cat bite your ponytail. It’s not sanitary.”
“He’s as clean as I am.”
“No, he isn’t. Besides, he should go outside now. He doesn’t get enough fresh air and sunshine.”
Mrs. Oakley leaned over to pick up the cat and it was then that she saw the old green coupé parked at the curb across the street. At noon when she’d unlatched the front screen door to let the girls in, she’d seen it too, but this time she knew it couldn’t be a coincidence. She knew who was behind the wheel, who was staring out through the closed, dirty window and what was going on in his closed, dirty mind.
Her hands tightened around the cat’s body so hard that he let out a meow of pain, but she kept her voice very casual. “Mary Martha, I’ve been concerned about those book reports that were assigned to you for summer work. How many do you have to write?”
“Ten. But I’ve got a whole month left.”
“A month isn’t as long as you think, lamb. I suggest you go up to your room right now and start working on one. After all, you want to make a good first impression on your new teacher.”
“She already knows me. It’s just Mrs. Valdez.”
“Are you going to argue with me, lamb?”
“I guess not.”
“That’s my angel. You may take Pudding up with you if you like.”
Mary Martha went toward the hallway with the cat at her heels. Though she couldn’t have put her awareness into words, she realized that the more pet names her mother called her, the more remote from her she actually was. Behind every lamb and angel lurked a black sheep and a devil.