The Truth of the Matter (3 page)

The sergeant sat very still for a moment, and Roebuck watched the back of his thick neck color. Then, with hardly a backward glance, the sergeant elbowed Roebuck once, hard, in the stomach as he stood. Roebuck crumpled.

“Sorry, Private,” the sergeant said, standing over him. “I sure didn’t see you there.”

The M. P.’s had to carry Roebuck out.

There had been a long confinement and long sessions with a battery of army psychiatrists who didn’t know enough not to disagree among themselves. Roebuck had refused to cooperate with them, of course, and he’d derived a lot of pleasure from observing their ceaseless disagreements. Then there had been a quick and formal court-martial, a suspended sentence and a medical discharge. Roebuck had fooled them. He was free.

Roebuck noticed suddenly that he was driving faster, and he slowed and pulled to the inside lane. After a while he turned down the ramp to the section of state highway that led to Atkins Road. A green roadsign told him he was driving toward the airport. The Crest Motel was very close to the airport. No doubt Ingrahm and Gipp had flown in from Little Rock.

A jet roared overhead, and Roebuck caught a glimpse of blinking lights above him through the mist. His hands tightened on the steering wheel. Driving the car was something like flying a jet, he thought, as he sat back in his bucket seat and read the softly lighted dials on the dashboard. He listened to the diminishing roar of the plane as he watched the wet road between swipes of the wiper blade. It was like flying on instruments, in a way.

The exit ramp to Atkins Road loomed ahead of him as he flicked on his highlights and prepared to make a careful, precision turn.

Roebuck backed the car into a space in the Crest Motel Lounge’s parking lot and walked quickly through the dampness to the side door. He looked about him as he entered. There were perhaps a dozen people seated at booths or tables, and four or five men at the bar. Though he was sure they wouldn’t appear as they had so many years ago, Roebuck was reasonably certain that no one in the lounge could be either Ingrahm or Gipp. The dampness outside seemed suddenly remote from the lounge’s warmth and opulence. Roebuck walked to the bar and mounted a stool.

“Bourbon and water,” he said to the bleached blonde barmaid who came to take his order. “And make it double strong, honey.”

She glanced halfway back over her shoulder and he glimpsed the flattered look of mock annoyance on her heavily made-up face. She was about Alicia’s age, her mid-thirties, and her figure was just beginning to go. She would look like hell in another five years, Roebuck thought, but she wasn’t half bad now.

“Bourbon and water,” the blonde repeated, setting the glass in front of him.

“Thanks, honey.” He flicked a five-dollar bill from his wallet and laid it on the bar.

“You know, you look something like John Wayne,” she said as she returned his change.

“Matter of fact,” Roebuck said, “I used to be his double in a few movies. Of course, that was some years back.”

“No kidding!” The blonde was obviously impressed, but she had to move off to take another customer’s order. Then the red-vested bartender called her over to the other side of the large lounge where they sat in a booth and began talking about something in the evening paper. Another bartender took over behind the bar. An excess of help, Roebuck thought. Apparently the weather was hurting the Crest Lounge’s business.

He sat sipping his drink, half listening to the drone of conversation around him, and his eyes were drawn to his reflection in the back bar mirror. Sad that a man had to get older, he thought, that the machine had to wear down. Things didn’t change that much on the inside, or the outside, for that matter. Sometimes it came to Roebuck in brief flickers of thought that he had the same aspirations and dreams that he’d had as a boy, that the world was essentially the same, that nothing really changed while his reflection was aging in the mirror.

A hand touched his shoulder gently and he jumped, spilling part of his drink.

“How are things, Lou?”

It was Ingrahm, thinner-haired, older, more lined, but it was Ingrahm.

They shook hands. “You look good, Bob,” Roebuck said.

“Thanks.”

There was a silence as each man studied the apparition from his past.

“The Kid’s over at a table,” Ingrahm said, motioning with his hand.

So Ingrahm still called Gipp “the Kid.” It had been a long time since Roebuck had heard that. They walked across the lounge toward the small, hard-looking man seated at a table by the wall.

Gipp stood as they approached and shook Roebuck’s hand. Even the faint light of the lounge was captured in his rimless spectacles.

“You were right,” Gipp said to Ingrahm.

“Sure,” Ingrahm said. “I told you it was him. I recognized him by the boots.”

“So you still wear cowboy boots, huh?” Gipp said, and all three men looked down at the polished toes of Roebuck’s Western boots.

“Most comfortable thing there is,” Roebuck said.

“I remember now.” Ingrahm smiled. “They had a hell of a time getting them away from you in the army. Threatened to throw you in the stockade or something.”

“Good memory,” Roebuck said. “A lieutenant and myself made a little deal about me giving up my boots. You didn’t see me on KP too often after that, did you?”

“Come to think of it, I didn’t.” Ingrahm winked at Gipp, who was smiling mechanically.

The blonde barmaid came over and they sat down and ordered. Ingrahm and Gipp had martinis and Roebuck ordered another bourbon and water.

“You sure don’t look like you did when you were eighteen or nineteen,” Ingrahm said to Roebuck.

“A long time ago,” Roebuck said. “But we saw each other in Little Rock ten years ago. That’s probably why you recognized me so easy.”

“Probably.” Ingrahm sipped his drink, smiling around the rim of the glass.

Ingrahm would be about forty-seven now, Roebuck thought, and Gipp about the same age. Both men a bit older than himself.

They made the usual small talk for a while, recalled the mutual memories, and then the mutual memories seemed to run out. There was a pause.

“We went by where you work,” Gipp said.

“My wife told me.”

“They didn’t know who we meant when we asked for you,” Ingrahm said. “They had you mixed up with some kind of war hero or something.”

There was a cold feeling in the pit of Roebuck’s stomach, and he suddenly realized how much he’d always hated Ingrahm. He cleared his throat. “You fellas didn’t see any action, did you?”

“The war was almost over,” Ingrahm said. “The story of my life. The Kid here got in on the Battle of the Bulge, though. Transferred out of the company and won himself a Silver Star, not to mention two Purple Hearts.”

“That’s right,” Roebuck said. “You mentioned that in Little Rock.”

Gipp was looking neither embarrassed nor proud as he lifted his glass to his lips.

“What was your heroic act?” Roebuck asked.

“Surviving,” Gipp answered flatly.

“Ah, modesty,” Ingrahm said. “The Kid got mad over there and killed four Germans in a machine gun nest all by himself, then he took over the machine gun and he and a German tank had a run-in.”

“You won, I take it,” Roebuck said, wishing immediately that the envy and admiration hadn’t sounded in his voice.

“I delayed the tank long enough for a bazooka team to knock it out,” Gipp said.

“Where’d you go after you got your medical discharge?” Ingrahm asked.

“Back to school for a while,” Roebuck said. “Studied advertising. I held several interesting jobs.”

“You must have a good job now.” Ingrahm searched his pockets for cigarettes, found them. Gipp lit one for him with a silver lighter. “We talked for a long time with that office manager…” He looked thoughtful. “What’s his name?”

“George King?”

“That’s it! He told us a lot about you when he found out we were old army buddies.”

And I’ll bet you told him a pack of lies about me,
Roebuck thought, taking a long swallow from his glass. “As a matter of fact,” he said, “I quit that job today. Had my mind made up for a long time.”

Ingrahm looked surprised. “How come?”

Roebuck shrugged. “Greener pastures. I’ve had a position offered me in the advertising department of General Motors.”

“That’s great.”

“What’s this business you guys have got going?” Roebuck asked, to change the subject.

“Construction supply,” Gipp said. “We sell supplies to individual homeowners as well as subcontractors.”

“Sounds profitable.”

“It’s growing,” Ingrahm said. “Almost more than the Kid and I can keep up with.” Ingrahm and Gipp exchanged glances and Gipp flashed his antiseptic smile.

Roebuck felt a strange current in the air, the old resentment, as if he were an intruder. He wondered why they had bothered to call him. There was something compulsive, something sadistic in Ingrahm’s personality. And as for himself, Roebuck, did he secretly enjoy Ingrahm’s verbal lashings? Why had he bothered to come here if he didn’t?

“I wish we had time to meet the wife,” Ingrahm said. “She sounded nice on the phone.” There was a special emphasis on the word “nice.”

Roebuck felt the hate for Ingrahm spreading in him as he sat calmly sipping his drink. “To tell you the truth,” he said casually, “we’re separated.”

“A shame,” Ingrahm said, and Gipp nodded agreement.

Roebuck made a futile gesture with his hands. “We weren’t getting along; I wasn’t home enough; she was jealous….”

“Anything we can do to help?” Ingrahm asked. “Money or something?”

“No,” Roebuck said quickly, “I’m doing all right.” He felt the blood rush to his face and he saw Gipp watching him from behind the thick glasses.

Roebuck cleared his throat. “Either of you fellas ever get married?”

“No,” Gipp said, not smiling, “neither of us.” He looked slowly away and raised his arm to glance at his wristwatch. “We’ve got that call coming,” he said.

“Hey, that’s right,” Ingrahm answered. “Damn near forgot all about it.” He turned to Roebuck. “We’ve got a business call due in five minutes that we’d better take in our room.” There was apology in his voice.

“Sure.” Roebuck drained his glass with finality.

“You want to join us in our room for a drink or something?” Ingrahm asked.

From the corner of his eye Roebuck saw Gipp shift uncomfortably. “Thanks, no,” he said, setting down his glass. “I have to be going anyway. Got an appointment up in north county with a little gal whose husband works nights.” He winked broadly as he stood.

“It’s the same Roebuck.” Ingrahm laughed as he and Gipp stood in perfect unison, as if they’d heard a silent command.

“Maybe we can get together later,” Roebuck said without enthusiasm. “You fellas got a car?” He didn’t think they would have a car, staying so near the airport, but Ingrahm nodded.

“We rented one,” he said. He grinned. “Tax deductible. The thing is, though, that we have to leave tomorrow morning. That’s why we called you this evening.”

“That’s too bad,” Roebuck said. He stood awkwardly, leaning with one hand on the back of his chair. “Well, next time you’re in town…call again.” He began to back away.

“Sure,” Gipp said. “Take care.”

Ingrahm waved lightly with his right hand. “Do it once for me.”

“What?”

“The little housewife in north county.” Ingrahm winked.

“Oh, sure.” Roebuck smiled and turned. He felt their eyes on his back as he walked toward the door, felt their silent laughter rocking the lounge. He hoped the back of his neck wasn’t red, hoped they couldn’t see that.

Outside, Roebuck sat in his car with the engine idling, watching the light rain drift downward onto the parking lot. The blinking neon sign shot glowing colors softly through the mist. Roebuck couldn’t make himself drive away as he sat breathing quickly, feeling the hate for Ingrahm fill him. It was Ingrahm who had brought his world down about him, Ingrahm with his cutting voice, his evil, making things seem worse than they really were. Roebuck shut his eyes tightly and tired to calm himself. Only once before had he experienced such hatred, and it frightened him as well as enraged him. He let the hatred boil darkly in him, boil over until it was released through his rapid breathing and his trembling hands.

Then, for some reason, he opened his eyes.

Ingrahm was there, standing in the parking lot just outside the lounge’s side door. He didn’t see Roebuck as he flicked his cigarette away and began walking across the lot toward another line of parked cars, apparently to get something out of one of them.

He passed directly in front of Roebuck, and there was a sound, a grating, roaring sound in Roebuck’s ears. Instantly, in a somehow unrelated way, Roebuck knew that what he was hearing was the spinning of the Thunderbird’s rear tires in the wet gravel of the parking lot. Ingrahm turned curiously, and then the curiosity changed to surprise as the headlights flashed on, and he held an arm over his eyes. He grew larger and larger and he extended both hands, palms out, as if he could hold back the roaring tons of metal.

Then he disappeared.

There was no sound, no feeling of arrested motion. Ingrahm had simply disappeared before Roebuck’s eyes and the car was stopped a hundred feet from where it had been parked.

In a daze, Roebuck put the car in reverse and backed around so that it was pointed toward the exit. He looked out the side window and saw Gipp, poised in the lounge doorway, the neon sign glinting redly from his glasses. His heart pounding against his ribs, Roebuck stepped down on the accelerator. For a horrible instant the car sat motionless while the wheels spun, hurling pebbles against the insides of the fenders. Roebuck got an impression in the rear view mirror of Gipp running, of Ingrahm lying sprawled on his back, and as the tires dug deep enough for traction and the car shot way, Roebuck thought that through the mist he saw Ingrahm raise one leg slowly, almost lazily, and then lower it.

Roebuck turned off Atkins Road and made himself slow to the speed limit. He was trembling, his hands, his feet, his arms, even the flesh of his face.
What now? what now? what now?
he asked himself over and over in time with his racing heart.