Charlie Martz and Other Stories (12 page)

We got action shots that day, working mostly during the late afternoon when the light did good things to the saguaro cactus and brought out the shadowed contours of the mountains.

We moved around quite a bit to vary the background and when Franklyn and I weren't with Nancy Hayes, he was up on some ridge setting up a shot. That's why I had trouble finding out what happened the night before. Naturally I was curious. I mean did they go to a show or what?

I'd say, “Did you have fun?”

“When?”

“Last night.”

“Oh . . . yeah.”

Then he'd be looking through the view camera and the next minute the white Sirocco would come slicing through a curve, its dust rising into the high-desert background.

“She told you last night she had this flight today?”

“That's right.”

“I'll bet it's her last one. I think she's going to quit.”

Franklyn glanced over. “Why?”

“Take up modeling.”

He shrugged. “They get married.”

“Her? I mean is she going with someone?”

“A Westway pilot.”

“She didn't mention him to me.”

“Their flight plans only cross about once a week.”

“They're not too serious then.”

“You're never sure,” Franklyn said. “Only careful.”

The Sirocco came flat out from the other direction, Nancy Hayes smiling and her ponytail blowing in the windstream.

“Tell her to slow down,” Franklyn said, “and to follow me.”

By the time I got back he had moved to get the car coming straight up a steep grade.

“You go to a show?”

“What?”

“Last night.”

“No, we just fooled around.”

“Watched haircuts?”

The Sirocco was climbing straight on with the road S-ing down below it.

“That was good,” Franklyn said.

So the Sirocco went back and came up again, roared past and left its dust hanging in stillness.

“I don't know if I'd want to drive these roads at night.”

Franklyn, loading his camera, didn't react.

“What'd you do, stay right at the Sands?”

“We drove to a place in town for a couple.”

“That's not too far. Then came back, uh?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I suppose you were pretty tired by then.”

“Kinda. We took a swim.”

“You went for a
swim
?”

“Just in and out. You know.”

“At the Sands?”

“Yeah.”

“It wasn't too cold?”

“Fine.”

“Not many girls'd go swimming that time of night.”

He didn't say anything.

“You think?”

“I don't know. It was her idea.”

“Really?”

He kept looking at me. “Talk again.”

“What do you mean talk again?”

“I think you got rid of your cold,” Franklyn said. “I don't hear it anymore.”

It was gone, or practically gone; probably dried out by the thin desert air the day before. The strange thing was, I hadn't noticed it. I'd gone all day without blowing my nose more than four times and I didn't even realize it until just then.

“The rest did it,” Franklyn said. He probably believed it too.

The action shots wrapped it up. The work was over, and right away, putting his equipment in the station wagon, Franklyn started making plans for the evening. Cocktails, dinner—maybe Nancy even knew another girl who wasn't busy. Huh?

Nancy Hayes's ponytail bobbed up and down. She knew loads.

Except, I told them, I was planning on getting an evening flight out if we finished early enough.

This news, I'm sure, didn't affect Franklyn's plans one way or the other. But it did postpone them and keep him hopping for a time.

While I changed and packed Franklyn took care of the flight reservation and also checked me out of the Desert Sands. We got to the airport with about fifteen minutes to spare. Franklyn said I'll come in with you. I said no need to. He said well, it was a pleasure working with you. I said let's do it again sometime. He said you name it. I said well, thanks for the ride and all. He said you better step on it.

Franklyn took off like an A-class dragster. I ran into the terminal, got in line at the ticket desk, kept watching the clock and the reservation clerk on the telephone, finally, finally getting to the desk—to find out that flight 457 would be delayed at least an hour.

But I'd miss my connection in Denver.

Let's see what we can do, the clerk said, and started leafing through schedules. Anyway—there wasn't one combination of flights that would get me to Detroit before the next day, and all included a few hours layover somewhere. So why not stay and take the through flight in the morning?

Why not.

I had a bourbon in the terminal bar deciding whether or not to call Franklyn. Tell him what happened. There'd be a pause and he'd say gee, that's great. Another pause. You want me to pick you up? With half a bourbon on the dresser, lather on his face, and the ponytail over in some other unit at that moment being combed into a neat slick shining bun.

I couldn't do it.

I had another bourbon and relaxed, the whole evening, the whole night before me; already it was dark and the bar was about three-quarters filled, with the sound of people together and ice in glasses and soft Cole Porter–type music in the background. One more bourbon. A Westway girl I recognized from the Sands walked by with some guy; she smiled and I nodded, wondering if the smile meant anything more than a smile.

I got a cab and went back to the Sands.

Probably I should have checked in first, but I didn't; I had a steak and more soft music and another bourbon—no sign of Franklyn or his new friend—so by the time I went to the desk to register it was about ten o'clock. And there wasn't a vacancy in the place.

Fortunately there was still Franklyn. The management knew we had been working together, so there was no objection to putting me up in his room. My bag was taken over, but I didn't follow it until about an hour later.

No, I went into the cocktail lounge where the cool combo played and sat at the bar being good, only nodding to the Westway girls I recognized and only as they were going by. One of them, I felt, would sit next to me any minute and say Hi. Hi. Can I buy you a drink? Fine. Lighting her cigarette then, the girl saying I heard you were here taking pictures. It must be fascinating. It's all right. Another drink. The girl: we could go to my place and talk. It's quieter.

We could also go goofy thinking things like that.
Be a good boy to the bitter end,
I thought,
and go to bed.

That got me to Franklyn's room and in the sack reading by a little after eleven. At eleven-forty-five the phone rang.

“Hi”—a girl's voice; breathless—“I just got back.”

“Terry?”

“You were expecting Mamie Van Doren?”

“Not even Charles.”

“You sound different.”

“I was in bed.”

“Would a swim and a shaker of stingers get you out?”

“Wow.”

“Why not?”

“I said wow.”

“In about ten minutes?”

“All right.” Very casually.

“See you at the pool then.”

About fifteen seconds. That's all it took.

The room was quiet. Probably the quietest a room has ever been. So quiet you could hear bare feet on the carpet, and the suitcase fasteners snapping open were like pistol shots.

You're going swimming, I said; not out loud, but I heard it loud.

She's a friend. You worked with her and she's a friend and you're going swimming. At places like the Sands people go swimming at night.

Even not at places like the Sands people go swimming at night. Night or any time.

If you want a swim you go swimming. Right?

Besides, it was for fun. I mean like a joke. She thought she was meeting Don Franklyn; there was no question about that. But I'd show up instead. So it was for laughs. A swim and laughs.

Both were even good for a person.

My trunks were on.

A terry cloth beachcoat, trimmed in the blue plaid of the trunks, remained folded in the suitcase. If you want to know why I didn't put it on I'll tell you. Which has nothing to do with my wife, Pat, insisting I take it because they wear outfits like that at places like the Desert Sands. I said but I don't like
outfits
. And she said she was sorry she ever bought it for me, packing it anyway.

That's the reason I didn't wear it—because it
looked
like an outfit you'd wear at the Desert Sands. It said look at me in my resort outfit. Anyway, not wearing it had nothing to do with my wife.

I put on a sweater and a towel around my neck, then changed the towel to just over one shoulder, then to just carrying it, picked up cigarettes and the door key and went out along the balcony and down to the yard where it was quieter than ever and dark before you got to the pink lanterns that glowed in the shrubs around the pool.

A swim would be all right.

And one stinger. No more than two.

She'd probably be all wrapped up in a big heavy beach towel.

I passed through an archway in the shrubs and saw her down at the deep end, standing by a table in a white suit with brown, brown arms and legs and a shaker on the table and not a big heavy beach towel in sight. She was lighting a cigarette, looking up, looking funny—surprised. No, scared. That was all the warning I had.

The shrubs moved. There were four or five quick steps on the cement. I started to turn and he hit me. He hit me smack solid on the side of the head and I stumbled, seeing a blue-gray uniform and dark blue stripes on the sleeve that was swinging at me again. My shoulder took the punch, but it moved me nevertheless and I went into the pool headfirst with my towel and key and cigarettes—choking then and coming up quick for air.

The airlines pilot was waiting at the edge of the pool, his big hands on his knees, his pale, dead-serious eyes square on me.

“Boy,” he drawled. “You want to come up and take my picture? I'll wait for you.”

I stood in only chest-high water. “Listen—”

“I'm all ears, boy.”

Which wasn't true. He was at least half muscle.

“Never mind.”

He walked off, heading for Terry McLean. She stood waiting like a little girl who was about to catch hell from her dad; and when he took her hand she went along good as gold.

Again, the next morning, we had to rush to make my plane. Franklyn was pleasant, whistling most of the way to the airport. He even went in with me and waited patiently while I got my ticket squared away. There were about two minutes to spare then.

Franklyn said, “Well, it was a pleasure working with you.”

“Maybe we'll do it again sometime,” I said.

“You name it.”

“I appreciate the ride.”

He kept looking at me. “Talk again.”

“I know,” I said. “I've got another cold.”

“You ought to take better care of yourself,” Franklyn said. “Get more rest.”

I shook hands with him quickly and ran.

P
AST HOWELL, HE KEPT
the speedometer needle at seventy for almost six miles, until he was in sight of the mailbox. Then he eased his foot from the accelerator, braked, and turned off the highway onto the road that cut back through the trees. The road was little wider than his car, a dim, rutted passageway that twice climbed into small clearings, but through most of its quarter of a mile kept to tree-covered dimness until it opened onto the yard and the one-story white farmhouse. He left the car in the gravel drive and went in the side door. It was almost seven o'clock in the evening.

“Ev?”

He heard Julie's voice and passed through the kitchen to see his wife at the end of the hall coming out of the bedroom. She went to him quickly, kissing him and holding herself against him for a moment before looking up.

“I was starting to worry—”

“They haven't been here?” Evan asked.

His wife's hair, smooth dark, parted on the side and clipped with a silver barrette, hung almost to her shoulders where it turned up softly and moved as she shook her head. She was twenty-three with a slight, boyish figure, a perhaps too-thin face, though her features were delicately small and even, and with freckles she did not try to conceal because her husband liked them.

“Did they call?” asked Evan.

“Not a word since Cal telephoned this morning.”

“If they left Detroit at two—” Evan paused. “Isn't that what Cal said?”

Julie nodded. “He was picking up Ray at two o'clock and coming right on.”

“They would've been here three hours ago if he did.”

She started to smile as she said, “Maybe they were in an accident.” In the dimness, but with light coming from the kitchen doorway, her teeth were small and white against the warm brown of her face.

Evan smiled, too, looking at his wife and feeling her close to him. “Thank God for small blessings.”

“Or Cal forgot the way,” she said.

“Or they stopped at a bar.”

Her smile faded. “That's all we'd need.” She followed Evan into the kitchen and leaned against the white-painted, oilcloth-covered table as he washed his hands at the sink. She liked to watch him as he lathered his hands vigorously then rinsed them until the calloused palms glistened yellow-pink and fresh-looking. She liked what she called his “honest farmer tan”: face and arms a deep brown with a line across his forehead and upper arms where the color ended abruptly. She even liked his “farmer haircut” with too much thinned out from the sides—just as he liked her freckles and the way her hair moved when she shook her head. They had been married less than a year and noticing and liking these things about one another were as important as anything they shared.

“I was beginning to worry about you,” she said.

“It took longer than I thought it would.”

“A reluctant calf?”

Evan nodded, drying his hands.

“Did he pay you?”

“Not yet.”

“He didn't pay for the brucellosis shots either.”

“He will, when he gets his wheat check.”

“Eight miles both ways and I'll bet he didn't even thank you.”

“He mumbled something.”

“Ev, that's a sixteen-mile round-trip . . . and a messy afternoon in his barn. For what? Eight or nine dollars.”

He looked at her curiously. “That wasn't a child I delivered, it was a calf.”

“Four years of veterinary medicine to charge eight dollars—”

“Twenty-five. I had to cut.”

“It's still too little, with the attention you give.”

“Do you expect him to pay more than the calf's worth?”

She shook her head faintly. “Good Sam.”

He frowned moving toward her. “Julie, what's the matter with you?”

“I'm sorry.”

“You sound like Cal, talking about money like that.”

“I said I was sorry.”

For a moment Evan was silent. “You're upset about them coming, aren't you?” He was standing close to her now and he drew her against him gently. “All of a sudden you sound like a different person. Listen, don't let him get you down like that.”

She closed her eyes, her arms going around his waist. “I was afraid they'd come while you were gone. Then I hoped they would because I didn't want you to be here.”

“The worrier.”

“Ev, this isn't like the little worries. First I thought:
it's better if you and Ray don't meet.
Then I thought:
no, I don't want to be here alone.
And I wasn't sure which would be worse.”

“Julie, Ray knows you're married.”

“That's just it.”

“But you went with the guy for two years. He can't be that bad.”

“He was hard to get along with and conceited and . . . I don't know. I can't even think of one thing in his favor.”

“Well, maybe he's grown up.”

“I think that would be asking too much,” Julie said.

They spoke little during supper.

Julie thought of Ray Perris. She had gone with him during her senior year in high school and off and on during her first two years at Michigan State, whenever she came home to Detroit and Ray bothered to call her. Then, in her third year, shortly after Ray was called into the army, she met Evan. There was no formal breakup with Ray, no ring to return, no good-bye. Ray never wrote, only once called her when he was home on furlough; and as far as Julie knew, Ray was still unaware that she was married. Until now. Not long ago she'd heard that Ray was out of the army and had become a professional fighter. This didn't surprise her. He had entered the Golden Gloves in high school; but, it seemed to Julie, more for the sake of wanting to be known as a fighter than for the actual boxing. Since meeting Evan, the only time she thought of Ray was to wonder how she could have ever gone with him. Perhaps only because she had been seventeen.

Then the phone call this morning from Cal, her cousin. Ray was in Detroit and he was bringing him out. And from that moment, suddenly realizing she was going to see Ray again and not wanting to see him, she was afraid.

Evan thought about Cal. How he would pull up into the drive unexpectedly, uninvited, and sit in the living room with them until all the beer was gone. Cal was twenty-three, Julie's age, four years
younger than Evan; but aside from that they had almost nothing in common.

The first few times he came, Evan tried hard to like him. He offered to show him around the farm; but Cal wasn't interested. For conversation he brought up the Detroit Tigers, Lions, and Red Wings, in that order, going from baseball to football to hockey. But Cal was a fight fan and Evan was familiar with few names, none of them current, in the boxing world.

Cal did talk. After a few cans of beer he carried the conversation and invariably his remarks were directed to Julie.

Why would anybody who knew better want to live in the sticks? I mean what do you do for kicks, sit and look at each other? Nothing to do, you work your francis off and all you got to show for it is a one-story house and a four-year-old car. If Ev wants to be a vet—I mean it takes all kinds of people, believe me—why don't he get one of those dog and cat deals? Plenty of them in Detroit and those guys are making
dough
.

Evan argued with him mildly the first few times; but when he realized his anger was rising he would stop. It wasn't worth it. Cal had more success with Julie. She was easily drawn into an argument, as if she were obligated to talk some sense into Cal, to make him see that living on a farm and not making much money didn't necessarily mean you weren't happy. And when she became angry, Evan would see Cal smile. A number of times he had to restrain himself from throwing Cal out bodily.

Evan would tell himself,
The next time he opens his mouth, out he goes. Even if he is her cousin.
But he sat quietly and put up with Cal, because he couldn't help feeling a little sorry for him.

But it's not the same now,
Evan thought.
It's nice to be nice, but you can carry it too far.

He thought then,
You're feeling sorry for yourself.

But that wasn't it, for he was almost always completely honest
with himself. He was thinking that he and Julie had been married for almost a year and everything was going smoothly, but for one moment this afternoon his wife had sounded like Cal and she had not even been aware of it.

You did not let a man ruin your marriage or even try to or begin to or even have it remotely in mind. That, you did something about.

They had eaten supper and were doing the dishes when the two-tone ivory and green station wagon swung onto the drive and came to a sudden, gravel-skidding, nose-down stop behind Evan's car. The horn blew, and kept blowing until Julie and Evan came out on the front porch.

They heard Cal's voice as he got out of the station wagon, almost stumbling, slamming the door, and Julie closed her eyes. When she opened them he was coming toward the porch. “We were starting to worry about you.”

Cal winked at Evan as if they were old friends. “That's the day.”

“What happened to you?” Julie's gaze went to the station wagon as she spoke. The curved windshield was green-tinted and she could not make out the figure behind the wheel, though she was certain it was Ray Perris.

“We stopped for some hunting,” Cal answered. “Ray figured if we're going out in the woods let's have some fun. So you know what the punchy guy does? He stops at a hardware store and buys two .30-30's.” Cal snapped his fingers. “Just like that. The guy's loaded.”

“You stopped for more than that,” Julie said.

“So we picked up a case of beer.”

Evan watched him. Cal stood with his hands on his hips, one blunt-toed Cordovan shoe in front of and almost perpendicular to the other in a fencing-like pose. “You're a little early for the hunting season,” Evan said.

Cal looked up at him. “Is that right, Doctor?”

“What were you hunting?”

“I don't know. What lives in the woods?”

Don't let him get you,
Evan thought and he said, nodding to the station wagon, “What about your friend?”

“He's a shy guy.” Cal grinned. “Waits to be invited.” His eyes went to Julie. “Ask your old boyfriend in for a beer.”

“I think you've already had enough.”

“Is that right?”

“You could hardly get out of the car.”

“Is that right?” Cal turned to the station wagon. “Ray, we're going to get a drunkometer test!”

“Cal, act right today,
please
!”

They heard the car door open and slam closed. Cal said, “There's a real bomb. Two hundred and thirty horses. Digs out from zero to sixty in ten flat. Something?”

Neither Julie nor Evan answered. They were watching Ray Perris rounding the back end of the station wagon, taking his time, his hands in the back pockets of his khaki pants.

He wore a tight-fitting short-sleeved yellow and white sport shirt and both of his forearms bore tattoos: a tombstone with the inscription
IN MEMORY OF MOTHER
on the right arm, and on the left, a dagger with
RAY
in ornate, serifed letters on the hilt. Air corps-type sunglasses covered his eyes (though the sun was off behind the trees and it was almost dark) and his dark hair, curling low on his forehead, was thick and combed straight back on the sides. At the nape of his neck his hair ended abruptly in a straight line.

Cal scratched idly about his shirtfront. He was hatless with light-colored hair that was crew cut on top and long on the sides and his entire face, pale and angular, seemed creased as he smiled.

“Ray's next fight's in Saginaw,” Cal said. “So he figured, hell, train at home for a change.”

Perris nodded. “Besides wanting to see Julie.” He was staring at her, ignoring Evan.

She tried to smile. “It's nice to see you, Ray. I don't believe you've met my husband—”

It was Evan's turn to smile, but his mouth was set firmly and his expression didn't change as he extended his hand and almost drew it back before Perris eased his from his back pocket.

“Cal said you were hunting,” Julie said to him.

“We shot sixteen beer cans.”

“You should've had Ev with you.” Julie stopped. “I mean if it was the season. Ev was practically born in the woods; hunts every year, sets traps in the winter.” She watched them shake hands briefly.

As they did, Cal said, “Like in the ring, huh, man?”

Perris's hands went to his back pockets again and he stood hip-cocked looking at Julie. “This cousin of yours, all he wants to talk about is fights.”

“He's already notched twenty-three wins,” Cal said. “Only lost four and drawed one. Another year and he's in line for a shot at the middleweight title. How about that?” Cal paused. “You know what they call him around the gym? Tony.”