Appointment in Samarra (7 page)

Thanks, Father English, she said. She put her packages down on the hall table and was helped out of her mink coat. The old man took it to the closet under the stairs and put it on a hanger. Haven t seen you in I guess it must be two weeks, he said. No. Christmas preparations

Yes, I know. Well, we didn t do very much in the way of shopping. I thought it over and I told Mrs. English, I said I think checks would be more acceptable this year, wherever we can

Doc-tor! came a voice. Oh, there she is now, said the doctor. Merry Christmas! Caroline called out. Merry Christmas, Mother, shouted Julian. Oh, you re here, she replied, and appeared at the top of the steps. I was just about to say we ought to call you up. It must have been a good party at the club. Julian saw his father s expression change. Mrs. English came downstairs and kissed Caroline, and then Julian. Now let s all have a nice cocktail, said Mrs. English, and then we can tell Ursula to start serving while everything s still hot. You two are so late. What kept you? Did you really get in so late last night? How was the dance?

I couldn t get the car started, said Julian. Cold.

What? said the old man. Couldn t get it started? I thought that apparatus you put in your garage, I thought

It wasn t in the garage. I left it out all night, said Julian. Our driveway was blocked, said Caroline. We re out in real country. It was drifted as high as the roof.

Was it? said the doctor. I never knew it to drift that high out where you are. Remarkable. Well, I s pose a Martini. Martini, Caroline?

Fine for me, said Caroline. What about you, Julian?

Now, Caroline, said the doctor. He ll drink anything, and you know it.

See our tree? said Julian s mother. Such a skimpy little thing, but they re so much trouble. I like a spruce, but they re so much trouble I don t think it s worth it when there aren t any children in the house.

We have a small tree, too, said Caroline. When Julian was a boy, do you remember those trees? You must have been here during the holidays when we had a tree, weren t you, Caroline?

No, I don t think I ever was. Julian used to hate me then, remember?

Funny, isn t it? said Julian s mother. Tsih, when I look back. You re right. He didn t like to play with you, but my gracious, I don t think he disliked you. He was in awe of you. But we all were. Still are. Caroline gave her mother-in-law a hug. Oh, now, Mother, she said. Julian did hate me. Probably because I was older.

Well, you wouldn t think it now, said the older woman. I mean that both ways. You wouldn t think he ever hated you, and you certainly wouldn t think you were older. Julian, why don t you go to the Y or something? Let me look. Turn your face over that way. & You are. You re getting a double chin. Julian, really.

Very busy man, said Julian. Here we are, said the doctor. Drink this one, Caroline, and you and I can have another before we sit down.

We can all have another one, said his wife, but we ll have to take it in to the table with us. I don t want to keep the girls any later than necessary. But that doesn t mean you re to bolt your food. Bad for the digestion.

It is if you don t masticate said the doctor. Doctor, please don t say that, said his wife. Chew your food is just as good a word. Well, shall we have a toast?

Yes, I think so, said the doctor. He raised the glass. God bless us, everyone, he said; and all momentarily serious and self-conscious, they drank their drinks. IV Caroline and Julian, in the car, waved to Dr. and Mrs. English, and then Julian slowly took his foot off the clutch and the car pulled away. The clock on the dashboard said 4:35. Julian reached in his pocket and took out the Christmassy envelope, which had been on his plate, exactly like the envelope that had been on Caroline s plate. He laid it in Caroline s lap. See how much it s for, he said. She opened the envelope and looked at the check. Two hundred and fifty, she said. How much was yours? he said. She opened her envelope. Same thing, she said. Two hundred and fifty. Really, that s too much. They re sweet. She stopped herself and he looked at her without turning. What is it? he inquired. Oh, she said. It s just that they re so swell. Your mother is such a darling. I don t see how you if she finds out about last night, your performance, do you realize how ashamed she ll be?

She s my mother, he said. Yes, she is. It s pretty hard to believe sometimes.

Am I going to be bawled out the rest of the way home? he said. No, she said. What s the use? What are you planning to do about Harry?

Harry? I don t know. I could call him up, he said. No, that s not enough. I think the best thing is for you to take me home and then go to his house and apologize in person.

Fat chance, said Julian. All right. But if you don t, I go to no more parties with you. That means I ll stay home from everything that we ve accepted, and another thing, our party is off. If you think I m going to make a spectacle of myself for people to talk about, going around to parties and having people feel sorry for me because of your behavior I just won t do it, Ju, I won t do it, and that s that.

If there s anything I hate, it s that s that, he said. All right. I ll go to his house. He s probably forgotten about it, and my going there will bugger things up proper.

Please promise me you won t bugger things up. You can handle him, Ju, if you re just careful. I didn t mean it when I said you couldn t. You can. Turn on some of that English charm and he ll fall for it. But please make it right so there won t be a situation for the rest of the holidays. Will you, darling? Her tone had changed completely, and her earnestness thrilled him. She was not quite so handsome when she was being earnest, but she so seldom wanted anything enough to be earnest about it that she became a new and rare Caroline. One condition, he said. What?

Will you do it? he said. I won t promise till I know what it is. What s the condition?

That you be in bed when I get home, he said. Now? In the afternoon?

You always used to love to in the daylight. He reached over and put his hand high on the inside of her leg. She nodded slowly. Ah, you re my sweet girl, he said, already grateful. I love you more than tongue can tell.

She spoke no more the rest of the way home, not even goodbye when she got out of the car, but he knew. It was always that way when they were away from their home, and made a date to go to bed when they got home. When they made a date like that she thought of nothing else until they got home. She wanted nothing else, and no one else could take anything of her, not even the energy that goes into gregarious gayety. Always she seemed then to crouch a little, although she didn t actually crouch. But whenever they did that, from the moment she agreed, to the ultimate thing, she began to submit. And driving away he knew again, as he had known again and again, that with Caroline that was the only part of their love that was submission. She was as passionate and as curious, as experimental and joyful as ever he was. After four years she was still the only woman he wanted to wake up with, to lie glowing with yes, and even to have intercourse with. The things that she said, the words he had taught her, and the divining queries that they put to each other they were his and hers. They were the things that made her fidelity so important, he believed; and when he thought of how important those things were, the words and the rest, he sometimes could understand that the physical act in unfaithfulness can be unimportant. But he doubted that infidelity is ever unimportant. He stopped the car at Harry Reilly s house, where Reilly lived with his widowed sister and her two sons and daughter. It was a low stone and brick house, with a vast porch around three sides. He pushed the bellbutton, and Mrs. Gorman, Reilly s sister, came to the door. She was a stout woman with black hair, with a dignity that had nothing to do with her sloppy clothes. She was nearsighted, wore glasses, but she recognized Julian. Oh, Julian English. Come on in, she said, and left the door open for him to close. She did not bother to be polite. I guess you want to see Harry, she said. Yes, is he here? he said. He s here, she said. Go on in the living-room and I ll go up and tell him. He s in bed.

Oh, don t disturb him, said Julian, if he s still asleep.

She made no answer. She went upstairs. She was gone less than five minutes. He can t see you, she said. He stood and looked at her, and she returned his look without a word and her expression said, It s up to you.

Mrs. Gorman, you mean he won t see me? said Julian. Well, he said to tell you he can t see you. It s the same difference.

I came here to apologize for last night, said Julian. I know you did, she said. I told him he was a fool to raise a stink about it, but you can t change him. He has a right to stay sore if he wants to.

Yes, I know.

I told him what he should of done was give you a puck in the mouth when you threw the drink at him, but he said there were other ways of fixing you. She was completely ruthless and honest, but Julian had a suspicion that she was a little on his side. You don t think it would do any good if I went upstairs?

Only make matters worse, if you want my opinion. He has a black eye.

Black eye?

Yes. It isn t much of a one, but it s there. The ice from the drink. You must of slung it pretty hard. No, I guess the best thing you can do is go. You won t get anywhere hanging around here now, and he s upstairs waiting till you go so he can curse you out once you get outside.

Julian smiled. Do you think if I leave and he curses me out, it d be all right if I came back then?

Her face became a little angry. Listen, Mr. English, I don t want to stick my two cents in this one way or the other. It s none of my affair. But I want to tell you this much. Harry Reilly is a sore pup, and there isn t anything funny about it when he gets sore.

Okay. Well, thank you.

All right, she said. She did not go to the door with him. He did not look back, but he knew as well as he could know anything that Harry Reilly was watching him from an upstairs window, and probably Mrs. Gorman was watching with him. He drove home, parking the car in front of his house, and went inside. He took as long as he could with his hat and coat, scarf and arctics. He walked slowly up the stairs, letting each step have its own full value in sound. It was the only way he knew of preparing Caroline for the news of Reilly s refusal to see him, and he felt he owed her that. It would not be fair to her to come dashing in the house, to tell her by his footsteps that everything was all right and Reilly was not sore, only to let her down. He sensed that she had understood the slow steps. She was in bed, the dazzling light coming in the windows from the west, and she was reading a magazine. It was The New Yorker, and not the newest one. He recognized the cover. It was a Ralph Barton drawing; a lot of shoppers, all with horribly angry or stern faces, hating each other and themselves and their packages, and above the figures of the shoppers was a wreath and the legend: Merry Xmas. Caroline had her knees up under the bedclothes, with the magazine propped against her legs, but she was holding the cover and half of the magazine with her right hand. She slowly closed the magazine and laid it on the floor. Did you have a fight with him? she said. He wouldn t see me. Julian lit a cigarette and walked over to the window. They were together and he knew it, but he felt like hell. She was wearing a black lace neglig� that he and she called her whoring gown. Suddenly she was standing beside him, and as always he thought how much smaller she was in her bare feet. She put her arm inside his arm, and her hand gripped the muscle of the arm. It s all right, she said. No, he said, gently. No, it isn t.

No, it isn t, she said. But let s not think of it now. She moved her arm so that it went around his back under the shoulder blades, and her hand moved slowly down his back, along his ribs, his hips and buttocks. He looked at her, doing all the things he wanted her to do. Her reddish brown hair was still fixed for the day. She was not by any means a small girl; her nose rubbed under his chin, and he was six feet tall. She let her eyes get tender in a way she had, starting a smile and then seeming to postpone it. She stood in front of him and kissed him. Without taking her mouth away she pulled his tie out of his vest and unbuttoned his vest, and then she let him go. Come on! she said, and lay with her face down in the pillow, shutting out everything else until he was with her. It was the greatest single act of their married life. He knew it, and she knew it. It was the time she did not fail him. V It was dark when Al Grecco bundled up, preparatory to starting his lonely drive to the Stage Coach. He bought cigarettes and chewing gum. He regretted that there was no one to see him getting into Ed Charney s coop. He liked doing that, driving away alone, in that car, before the muggs who hung around the Apollo. It showed them how he stood with Ed, compared to them. It was an eighteen-mile drive, with a dozen tiny coalmining patches to break up the stretches of lighted highway. The road was pretty good, but Al told himself that if he was any judge, it would be drifted again before he got home. In the patches the snow was piled high on each side of the streets. He counted only six persons in all the patches between Gibbsville and Taqua, the next fairly big town, fourteen miles from Gibbsville. That showed how cold it was. In all the houses in the patches the curtains were down, and the hunkeys, the schwackies, the roundheaders, the broleys regional names for non-Latin foreigners probably were inside getting drunk on boilo. Boilo is hot moonshine, and Ed did not approve of it, because if the schwackies once stopped drinking boilo, they would drink his stuff. Still, there was nothing to do about it. But it was cheating, in a way, for the schwackies to be celebrating Christmas; they celebrated Christmas all over again on January 6, Little Christmas. In each patch there was one exception to the curtained windows of the houses; that was in the doctor s house. There was a doctor in each town, living in a well-built house, with a Buick or a Franklin in front of the house. More than once Al had found it a good thing to know, that the doctors usually kept one car in front of the house either the Buick or Franklin, or the Ford or Chevvy. More than once Al had drained gasoline from the doctors cars, and never once had been caught. He tore along the highway, clipping off the fourteen miles to Taqua in twenty-one minutes. His best time was twelve minutes, but that was in the summer, with a load of white alcohol. Twenty-one minutes tonight wasn t bad. But he gave up trying to make time from Taqua to the Stage Coach. Too many turns in that road, and all uphill. You come to a fairly steep hill on that stretch, you climb the hill and think you re set, but then you find it s only the beginning of the real hill. Once you get on top of the hill it is only a few hundred yards to the crossroads, which is where the Stage Coach is built. If you want to you can go on and climb some more hills, because the Stage Coach is built on a plateau, one of the coldest places in Pennsylvania. There has been an inn on the site of the Stage Coach as long as there has been a road. It was one of those things that had to be. Anyone who climbed that hill in the old days had to rest his horses and get a toddy for himself. And motorists liked to pause there for the same reason. It was a natural place to stop traveling. A wrought-iron coach-and-four, six feet long over all, hung from a post in front of the inn. The Stage Coach was only two years old, still new as Gibbsville things went, and Ed was making improvements all the time. A business acquaintance of Ed s in New York had sent Ed a fat, rosy-cheeked young man to do the decorating. The young man had been driven once back to New York by the practical jokes of the boys, but Ed gave out the word to leave him alone, so the pansy came back and did a very good job of the Stage Coach. People from the cities often commented on the Stage Coach, how surprising it was to see such a really nice place in all that coal-region squalor. Ed, of course, owned the place, but it was run by Foxie Lebrix, who had been headwaiter in one of the big New York hotels which one he never would say. Foxie was a strong, bulky Frenchman, about fifty-five years old, with white hair and a black mustache. He could tear a deck of cards in half, or break a man s jaw with a single punch. He also could cook stuff that only a few of the Lantenengo Street crowd ever had heard of, and just as few could pronounce. He was thought to be a killer, but nobody knew that for sure. Al Grecco treated him with respect. Hello, Fox, said Al, in Lebrix s office. Hello, said Lebrix. The big boy tell you I was coming? said Al. He dit, said Lebrix. He was dipping a cigar in brandy, using his left hand, and giving the impression of not letting his right hand know what the left hand was doing. He saved the right hand for his little gestures. Thee lady is resting, he tossed his head back to indicate upstairs. She was a little onder the wather wan Ed phoned.