8.

Mean!

But she wasn't! Never, ever-no matter what anyone said. What they might say now. It was a lie, foolish, ridiculous, deliberately hurtful: for the truth was not here in the now of life.

. . . She had been less than three years old when her father died, and he did not exist in her memory as a man; or, more specifically, as man. He was protection; he was shelter; he was warmth and comfort and soothing words. But he was not man.

Man was Mr. Leemy.

It was a little more than a year after Your Dear Father's death when she and Mama had gone to live with Mr. Leemy. Mama had explained that the move was necessary- how often she had used that word, a kind of Close Sesame: above definition and argument. And then Mama had gone on, in violation of all precedent, to say that they were really very fortunate, to repeat-almost stubbornly, it seemed- that Mr. Leemy was really a very fine man, a splendid man . . . regardless of what people say.

And the next day-they moved the next day for Mama had delayed telling her until the last moment-she met Mr. Leemy. And so great was her disappointment that she almost burst out crying.

She did not cry, of course. One didn't cry over things that were necessary. She only stood paralyzed, shocked and confused, trying to reconcile splendid and fine and all the rest with this-with man.

He sat in the dimly-lit library of the house, his two canes hooked over either arm of his chair, the chair drawn up before the stingy coals of the fireplace. He sat crouched, like a spider, it seemed: something that was all bulging torso and puffed fish-white face; his thin pipestem legs tapering spiderishly into shoes that were little larger than her own.

And Mama had dragged her forward, then pushed her a little to the front. And Mr. Leemy had put out one of his puffed, decay-smelling hands and pinched her on the arm.

Involuntarily, she jerked away. "Don'th!" she said.

"Don'th?" Mr. Leemy decided to be amused. "You must be a little boy. That's the way little boys talk."

"No-yeth, thir," she said, taking another step backward, trying to reach Mama's hand.

"Oh, you are a little boy, then? That's too bad. I hoped you were a little girl. I like little girls, don't I, Ma-Mrs. Baker? I know what they like, don't I?"

Mama murmured indistinctly. Mr. Leemy tried to pinch her again-and failed; and his teasing became edged.

"Little boy," he said. "That's the way little boys talk. Too bad. Yes, sir, it's certainly too bad you aren't a little girl. I like little girls and little girls like me. Don't you want to be a little girl so . . . ?"

And at last, at merciful last, Mama had said, "I'm afraid the child's a little overwrought. Say good-night to Mr. Leemy, darling."

"I'll bet she can't even say good-night," he said. "You can't say it like a little girl, can you?"

And Mama was starting to pull her away, by then, but she took the time to answer. She had to convince him. She had to make sure that he would not like her . . . as he liked little girls.

"No, thir," she said. "Good-nighthe."

. . . Thereafter, she had had very little contact with Mr. Leemy. The house was large and there was only Mama, the housekeeper, to do the work; so there was always something to be done, by way of helping Mama, in some part of the house where he was not. Mr. Leemy took his meals on a tray, in his room or the library. She and Mama ate alone. She was sent to bed early, in her own room, and she was made to understand that, once there, it was necessary to stay. Mr. Leemy, because of his legs, occupied a downstairs bedroom.

So they saw very little of each other. Sometimes she was almost able to persuade herself that he didn't exist. Sometimes, that is, in those few years before she entered school. Never after that. There were whisperings and snickerings and frank questions about bogey men. ("He'll getcha, I bet. My mama oughta know, I guess, an' she says. . .") The teachers looked at her peculiarly, often with distaste, more often and more hateful to bear with pity. And once at recess, when she was coming up the stairs from the girls' bas.e.m.e.nt, she heard a group of teachers talking on the landing above. Talking about Mama and Mr. Leemy.

Almost three months pa.s.sed before she ascertained the truth for herself, the false and ugly truth of adulthood, as opposed to the sparkling and wholly splendid truth of her infancy. Three months of thinking and preparing herelf, of waiting on a necessity so urgent as to outweigh the prohibition against leaving her room at night.

It came: the compelling excuse she had waited for. It came, yet she continued to wait for a few nights, until a night when she heard a soft creaking of the stair treads and, a moment or two later, the squeaking rattle of the library doors as they rolled open and shut again. She waited nearly ten minutes-some four hundred heart beats. Then, noting that she was slightly feverish-and she actually was, she had been so for several days-and that her water gla.s.s was empty, she went quietly down the stairs and into the kitchen and drew a drink from the tap.

She had had to get the drink of water. And, as a person incipiently ill, it was certainly wise to pause midway on the long, steep flight of stairs; to sit down and rest for a . . . for as long as was necessary.

She had polished the library transom no later than yesterday, doing it well as she did everything. The spotless gla.s.s seemed to magnify the bloated body of Mr. Leemy, seated as always before his stingy fire. It framed him, as in a picture, its oblong outline thrusting him into prominence even as it thrust everything outside its periphery into oblivion.

She could not see Mama. Her head swayed and her eyes drooped shut for a moment. When she opened them again, Mr. Leemy was hoisting himself from the chair with his canes.

He was standing, and her view of him was cut off at the waist.

He braced himself with one cane, and lifted the other.

And she still could not see Mama, but she could him-see the slick wetness of his mouth, his glazed eyes, as he slashed with the cane at . . . at . . .

Whatever was there on the floor.

She could see the cane swing up and down, jerkily. Faster and faster . . .

That should have been enough. The thought that it must be, that there could be nothing more after this-that in surviving this she had survived all-was her sole anchor in sanity during her remaining years in Mr. Leemy's house.

If it had been all, perhaps . . . But it wasn't. There was one final bit of evidence in the d.a.m.ning case against man. And this, probably, was the worst of all; because it stripped all those years of meaning. It handed out shame and ugliness, exacted unquestioning submission and exchanged futility. No time of peace. No comfort and security, all the sweeter for past sacrifice and hardship.

Yes, Mama was Mr. Leemy's sole heir, as he had promised she would be, but his estate had never been the vast abundance that everyone supposed, and at the time of his death it was worse than worthless. He had lived it up, as the saying is. There were large, unpaid bills. Even the house and its furnishings were mortgaged to the hilt.

She and Mama had been allowed to move into an old tenant shack at the rear of the main house, and the Doctors Warfield-Old Will and Young Will-the only people in town who had ever been nice to her and Mama-the doctors treated Mama for nothing and gave her, Lucretia, some after-school work at their office (and paid her twice what it was worth), and so she had managed to finish high school. A few weeks before Mama died.

That was undoubtedly all for the best, as the doctors said. Mama was losing her mind. There was something incurably wrong with her insides. . . .

. . . Josephine stared at Miss Baker, troubledly, her brow puckered in anxious concern. At the moment she would have given one of her unpaid week's wages for some Long John the Conqueror Root, or, better still, a pinch of goofer dust. If a person ever needed a sprinkling of goofer dust, and needed it bad Miss Baker was undoubtedly it.

Miss Baker was plenty mean, all right; she was a pure-evil eye. But, obviously, no one who looked as Miss Baker was looking-so poorly-pale, like some poor scared-sick chil'- could be responsible for her affliction. Plenty of folks had the evil eye put on 'em. Plain nice folks, they were, but someone made conjure against 'em and from then on, and until the hex was removed, well, those folks was in a bad way.

Rather gingerly, Josephine touched Miss Baker's arm. She was mightily afraid, but it was one's bounden duty to a.s.sist innocent sufferers from the evil eye.

She touched the nurse's arm more firmly, then gently grasped her by the elbow and lowered her to the stool.

"You be all right," she said. "You gonna be all right, now, Miz Baker. You drink some nice, hot coffee."

Miss Baker looked blankly down at the cup.

She took a scalding sip of coffee, and her eyes began to clear. Very pleasant, but it must be getting quite late. She would have to get dressed and something-something would have to be done with her hair. It . . . well, it seemed to be pulling, there at the back of her neck, and-it was pulling!

Irritably, she brushed at it.

Her hand came down on Josephine's. It almost struck the knife with which Josephine had been about to remove a lock of hair.

The coffee cup dropped from her startled fingers and into her lap. She jumped to her feet, screaming and streaming.

"What are you doing? What were you doing to me!"

"Nothin'," said Josephine, seeing that the eye had rea.s.sumed its wicked reign. "Wasn't doin' nothin'," she said, backing away. "No, ma'am, not me!"

"You were, too! Don't you suppose I-What are you holding behind you?"

"Me? You mean me, Miz Baker?"

"Jothephine! Let me thee your handth!"

Josephine shrugged, her lower lip pushed out in injured innocence. She brought her hands around in front of her, and held them out.

"Aw, right," she mumbled, "you like to see han's, there they is. Just plain ol' han's, seems like to me, but I ain't arguin'. Don't make me no mm'. I just soon-"

"That," said Miss Baker, her cheeks crimsoning, "will be juth about enough, Jothephine! You were doing thumthing to-"

"I don't argue about nothin'," said Josephine. "I show you my feets, you want to see 'em. All I ask is you stan' right there so's 'at coffee runs down on your shoes 'stead of my floor, an'-"

Miss Baker looked down at her ruined uniform. She fled out of the kitchen and up the stairs.

Sorrowfully, for success had been in her grasp, Josephine reached behind her and removed the knife from its improvised holster of ap.r.o.n strings. Holding it to her mouth, she breathed a cleansing film of moisture onto the blade and polished it against her bosom. She took meat from the refrigerator, and began slicing it for lunch.

Josephine sighed, her thoughts moving from the apparently hopeless project represented by Miss Baker, to the incredible density of Doctor Murphy's mind. To the latest proof of that density. The condition of Susan Kenfield.

That was somethin'-Josephine chuckled sourly-yes, sir, that was really somethin'. She wished Ol' Mam had been with her, peering out through the kitchen serving-window, when they'd brought Miz' Kenfield in. Ol' Man or Granny Blue Gum-Granny who was bat-blind and stone-deaf. Because it helped if you could see and hear, but you didn't really have to. It was mostly the smell that you went by. That smell-and how could folks say it wasn't there just because they couldn't smell it?-that didn't tell no lies.

Josephine picked up a slice of meat, stuffed it into her mouth, and chewed reflectively. Maybe . . . huh-uh; her head moved in a silent but positive negative. They'd laugh at her. Didn't want her to laugh, but they were always waiting for a chance to laugh at her. So let 'em find out for themselves. It sure wouldn't be long until they did find out.

Any old time now, Miz' Kenfield would be poppin' that baby.

9.

Bernie Edmonds stepped back from the slightly opened door of the Holcombs' double room, the thumb and forefinger of his right hand curved together in a symbol of success.

"Gone on by," he grinned. "Looks like he was headed for the terrace."

"I thought you were a little brusque with him," said John Holcomb. "Didn't you think so, brother?"

"We-ell," said Gerald Holcomb, "I suppose one might say Bernie was unnecessarily firm, but the young man has been succeeding reasonably well on his own. We don't want to dull his incentive."

"True, oh, very true, brother," said John, "And, of course, we had considerably more whiskey at the time we made our offer." He chuckled and turned to Gerald. "Will you do the honors, brother? I'm afraid I haven't enough left to divide."

"A pleasure, brother," said Gerald.

Rising, he undid the belt of his pajamas and let them drop to his knees, A full pint of whiskey was fastened to the inside of his right thigh with a strip of adhesive tape. He removed the tape, measured half of the whiskey into the gla.s.ses which Bernie had taken from beneath the bed, and readjusted the bottle and his pajamas.

They toasted each other.

They were friends. For the moment they were relaxed, comfortable. They were not three but one, and defenses were unnecessary.

John Holcomb lifted one plump b.u.t.tock from his chair, and rubbed it tenderly. "You get a shot in the tail yesterday, brother? From the nurse, I mean?"

"Did I!" said Gerald. "What about you, Bernie?"

"Huh-uh." Bernie rolled his head. "Doc took care of me. I'll tell you about that nurse . .

He proceeded to tell them, his opinion being that no shots should be taken from Miss Baker in a position which prevented one from watching her. "Probably doesn't get enough," he concluded. "One look at a man's a.s.s and she loses control."

The brothers laughed. They raised their gla.s.ses again, and again each stole a glance at the remainder of his drink. There was no thought in any of their minds of complaining to Doctor Murphy about Nurse Baker's roughness. El Healtho was far superior to any of the many other sanitariums they had patronized. Miss Baker, despite the occasional painfulness of her ministrations, was far superior to any of the establishment's previous nurses. Finally, but foremost in importance, was the fact that alcoholics can be even less choosy than beggars; they seem to be born with an abundance of tolerance for the defects of others, and they quickly acquire more. They have to.

"Yes," murmured John Holcomb, absently, "it must be very trying, this dealing with drunks day in and out. Can't really blame a person for getting rough and tough."

"I don't see why a really good man like Doc stays in the game," said Gerald.

"Well"-Bernie Edmonds revolved the whiskey in his gla.s.s-"it's a kind of personal thing with Doc, sort of a crusade. You know-you didn't know his father died of the booze?"

"No!" said the brothers.

"That's right. Made quite an impression on Doc, and I can't say that I blame him. The father, he was a doctor, too, and a pretty good one, but he'd been going down hill a long time. Lost all his practice, friends, money, and his wife had given up the ghost and died. Well, so he got on this last big toot, got the whole town down on him but good, and wound up in jail. They didn't know anything about alcoholism in those days, of course. He was just a dammed ornery drunk, so into the jug he went until he snapped out of it. No treatment, no nothing. He'd been in four days when Doc, our boy, that is, fought and begged his way in, and he made such a fuss that they finally called in a doctor. Too late-if it hadn't been too late in the beginning. Doc says they gave him enough morphine to coldc.o.c.k a cow, and it didn't have any more effect than baking powder. He went right on shaking. Shook himself to death."

"Figuratively speaking, of course?"

"Literally. Ruptured himself inside, according to Doc; even unjointed a number of his bones."

"Well," said John, "if Doc says so it's so. He wouldn't waste time trying to scare an alcoholic."

"It's true, all right. Doc was sore at me when he told me, but I know it wasn't a scare yarn. I've read of similar cases." John said it was almost enough to make a man swear off reading.

Bernie remarked that it was strange how talking could dry the membranes of a man's throat.

Gerald lowered his pajamas again, emptied the rest of the whiskey into their gla.s.ses and shoved the bottle under the bed. They toasted each other. As John lowered his drink, his eyes met his brother's in tentative inquiry. Gerald nodded and took another small sip.

"By the way, Bernie . . ."

"Yeah?"

"How-uh-how are things going with you? How's the job?"

"I don't," said Bernie, "think I have one. Can't say that I care, really. It was a pretty lousy job."

"What-uh-" John Holcomb squirmed, and suddenly grimaced with pain. "d.a.m.n that woman, anyhow! . . . Uh-brother and I don't want to offend you, but if a small loan-"

Bernie laughed shortly. "You haven't been very successful in offending me in that department. But-I guess not. I'd rather not. I'd rather you didn't tempt me."

"Oh, come, now," said Gerald. "What's a few dollars between-"

"What would I do with it?" said Bernie. "What would I do with a few thousand? The same thing I've always done."