Strange Fugitive Page 4

  “How’s the boy, Harry?”

  “Fine. We haven’t had an evening together for moons.”

  “No, not in a dog’s age.”

  Farrel adjusted himself comfortably in an easy chair. Harry liked him for being so reassuring. Stan leaned forward in his chair, his paunch overflowing, fat around the waist all right, but his legs hard, and his shoulders wide and firm. A little boxing in the army had been useful, though he never could stand being hit on the nose. Anyway he was good-natured and his wife couldn’t get sore at him. His cheeks were smooth and except for a few long hairs on a growth on his left cheek, he never had to shave. He had on his “gates-ajar” collar that he always wore, a mark of the professional man.

  “How about going down to the office tonight?” he said.

  “What’s the idea? We couldn’t stay long.”

  “Long enough. Let the girls strut their stuff by themselves, they’ll never miss us.”

  “What’s doing down at the office?”

  “Bob Gibson’ll be there, and if he hasn’t got anything to drink we can slip over to Angelina’s.”

  Mrs. Farrel and Vera came back arguing politely about an article in the evening paper, a division of opinion among the Baptists in the city over a proper interpretation of the Book of Jonah. Harry looked up. When Mrs. Farrel and Vera were together he felt slightly superior, though always aware that Stan was the professional man. Mrs. Farrel, a good talker when she got going, had a neat lean body, tall and rather good-looking. Her skirt hung loosely around her hips. Her feet were long and slender. At public school, kids had called her licorice legs, but her face was fresh and her hair thick. She was positive she was right and often said, “don’t be silly,” but when really puzzled she said, “I’ll ask my husband.”

  “The teacup theologians,” Stan grinned.

  “I’m for the whale,” Harry said.

  “Maybe so, if you like being skeptical,” Mrs. Farrel said.

  “Did the whale swallow Jonah, or did Jonah swallow the whale?” Stan said brightly.

  That spoilt the argument. Vera started a literary conversation with Farrel, unaware that he was treating her opinions good-humouredly. Farrel, talking, liked some of his own opinions so well he expanded and said, “I’ve always been fond of the company of bookish people and artists. Knew a lot of them in the army. We had a paper and I wrote some fair satirical verse in it, if I do say it myself.”

  “A poet, eh?”

  “A bit of a poet, rather.”

  Harry got up. “Cut it short and let’s do something. Stan and I were thinking of taking a little walk.”

  “I’m reading Philip Gibbs,” Vera said, holding on to the conversation. “I think his descriptions wonderful.”

  “Philip Gibbs, eh, yeah, yeah, but I stick to the old stuff,” Farrel said. “Hold your horses, Harry old boy. I mean I’m reading Montaigne’s ‘Essays.’ There you have pungent humour in the classical vein and quite revolutionary too, mind you. Ever read it?”

  “No. Come on. Stan, I’m laughing hearty.”

  “Harry doesn’t like reading much,” Vera apologized.

  “Neither does my wife.”

  “I just don’t like the books Stan likes,” Mrs. Farrel explained.

  “That’s it, dear, you just don’t like ‘em.”

  “But Stan can tell you who wrote almost anything though. Go on, Stan.”

  Stan winked at Harry, smiling good-naturedly.

  “Go on, try him, Mrs. Trotter,” Mrs. Farrel said.

  “Well.”

  “Go on, try and catch him.”

  “Tut tut, Mrs. Trotter, we’ll just take it as read,” Stan said, getting up. Going out the door, Harry said to Stan, “What do you think this is, your birthday, what the hell!”

  They left the house and walked over to the corner to get a streetcar, and waited five minutes before the car came along. The hot August night was sticky, the air heavy and men passing were carrying coats and fanning themselves with sailor hats. Harry looked up overhead, no stars in the sky, then looked at Stan, the “gates-ajar” collar losing some of its stiffness around his thick neck. They hesitated, thinking it might be better to go over to the Greek’s and have a cool sundae, but the car came. They got a seat together, and Harry on the inside jerked up the window, putting his elbows on the window ledge, a cool breeze coming as the car gained speed.

  They walked slowly over to the office building, their coats under their arms. Stan, his handkerchief in his hand, mopped his forehead continually. In the office building the old fellow doing night duty on the elevator knew Stan and they held a weather conversation as they shot up to the eleventh floor.

  They could see a light in the office at the end of the corridor. “Bob’s there all right,” Stan said, “but I’ll try the door quietly, if it’s locked we won’t bother him.”

  “Who would he have in there?”

  “The Lord knows. I don’t.”

  The door was locked but the knob rattled. Someone yelled, “Come in.”

  “Now that’s bright, all right,” Stan said.

  Then Bob Gibson opened the door, grinning, one hand in his pocket, a nice guy, slim, neatly dressed. Whispering softly he nodded to the back office, saying loudly, “Sure Stan, come on in. Come on in, Harry.” He grinned foolishly at Harry.

  The woman in the back office said merrily, “How’s the old straw hat, Stan?”

  “Do you know Harry Trotter, Anna?”

  “No, but why not.”

  “Anna is our best lady friend.”

  “Your best client you mean.”

  “That’s right,” Stan said, “our best cash customer, she pays and pays.”

  “One more wise-crack, and you go out,” Bob said, hunting for extra glasses in the drawer of his desk. He pulled out five or six napkins from Bowles Lunch. “I use them for handkerchiefs in the morning when I don’t go home at night,” he explained, carefully replacing them in the drawer.

  Anna tilted back in the swivel chair, her long legs stretched out, her neck balanced on the back of the chair. She grinned generously at Harry and tried to look alertly genial.

  Two more glasses were placed on the table. One bottle was in the waste-paper basket, another on the windowledge. Heavy green curtains were drawn over the windows.

  “How’s it going, Anna?” Stan asked, rubbing his hands, boisterously genial. “I had an idea you’d be here.”

  “I’m getting a divorce,” she said enthusiastically.

  “Even so, don’t stand there like sentries, you two,” Bob said. “Draw up some chairs and let’s be a family.”

  “No more family stuff, thanks. Hey, Harry, are you married?” she smiled.

  “I sure am.”

  “Like it?”

  “Got nothing against it.”

  “That means you’re a swell husband. Only I don’t think I’d want one anyway.”

  “If you ever do?”

  “Name’s in the phone book, I getcha.”

  She got up and leaned against the windowsill, looking serious quite prettily. Harry was anxious to be friendly. She was lazy-looking and easy-going. There was a swing to her big body. She took off slowly her mauve silk hat and swung it on the tip of her finger. “Made it myself,” she grinned. “How do you like it, Harry? Bob likes it. Stan likes it. Everybody likes it.”

  Harry sat down, smiling at Anna. He took the drink Bob gave him, then he laughed at her. He laughed outright as a relief from grinning, rather uncertain of himself. She was easy-going, and he was sure she demanded no effort, but knowing it, he couldn’t find the right words to interest her.

  “Tell Harry the crossword puzzle story, Anna,” Bob said. “Stan’s the crossword puzzle hero,” he explained.

  Stan beckoned to Bob, who got up and followed him to the next office. “Business, always business,” he said pleasantly.

  Harry got up and leaned against the edge of the desk, watching Anna out of the corner of his eye. She smiled openly, tilting back i
n the chair, half closing her eyes, her toe just touching his ankle gently, accidentally, but it startled him, and he stared intently at the neat ankle, following the curve of it till he nervously looked at her eyes, only half closed. Very slowly, he brushed against her silk stocking leg, closing his eyes, tilting back his head a little to enjoy fully the faint sound of a trouser-leg brushing against smooth silk, holding it there till his hands began to tingle. At the moment he didn’t want it to go any further, and wished it had been dark, for it was enough to feel her rounded ankle pressed against his trousered leg. Mechanically he moved closer, touching her shoulder with his hand. He touched her coat with the tip of his finger very gently, then stared at her directly. She was breathing heavily, as though asleep, but he knew she was watching him. She didn’t want to spoil it by opening her eyes. He rubbed his hands down her coat, slowly and lightly. He heard Bob and Stan coming, and stepped back, leaning against the edge of the desk. She reached out to squeeze his hand quickly, then yawned lazily.

  Stan picked up his glass and emptied it. “Very good, Bob, now, I think we’d better leave you two to the pursuit of happiness, eh?”

  “I like the boyfriend,” Anna said suddenly, showing her teeth, and nodding at Harry. They were firm teeth, white and even.

  “O Lord, that means you’ll have to adopt her too,” Bob said sadly.

  “I’m a knockout at that.” Harry went around the table to lean against the window ledge with her. She settled snugly against the ledge with him.

  “Whose adoption is she now?”

  “Bobbie’s,” Stan said mournfully.

  “Yours last week, Stan. Tell about the crossword puzzle, Anna.”

  “No, I’m just her legal adviser.”

  “I’m her husband’s,” Bob said, still mournful.

  “Forget the little runt,” she said sharply. “Thank the Lord that’s over.”

  Bill and Stan were exchanging wisecracks and Harry tried to whisper, his lips brushing against the hair over her ears. She couldn’t hear him and pretended he was tickling. He was asking for her phone number, deliberately muffling his words, not sure he wanted her to hear him. They both enjoyed it. “It tickles,” she said.

  “You two are getting damn chummy mighty silently,” Bob said soberly.

  For half an hour more they talked, anxious to keep the conversation lively. Bob brightened up immensely.

  Outside, the street, back from the main thoroughfare, was very quiet. A slight breeze made the air cooler.

  “She’s really nice, Stan, and she don’t seem tough. Was she tight?”

  “She’s a fine-looking girl, I’ve always said it, I mean she’s nice-looking, neat for a big girl.”

  “You bet your boots, she’s got a hot way with her.”

  “Oh, I don’t know.”

  “Don’t know what?”

  “I mean I’d lay off her if I were you. Would have been all right a few weeks ago, but there’s too many fooling around her now. See?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Yeah, it’s so. Listen to that damn night-hawk screeching.”

  “You wouldn’t think it would fly around these buildings.”

  At the corner they could see the twinkling yellow and pink lights of the new electric sign over the Hippodrome. A cop, on the corner, looked at them doubtfully. Harry thought of Bob and Anna back in the office, mainly of Anna. Then he thought of the night before with Julie Roberts. Two women entirely different. Julie puzzled him, exciting him inwardly, so he could never be effective with her, but he could reach out his hand and confidently touch Anna. She was young and carelessly eager. “Things’ll go easy with that baby,” he thought, looking forward to her with relief, since his thoughts of Julie, or Vera, and even the memory of Grace Leonard had often bothered him till he was confused and unhappy.

  “Where’d you pick her up?” he said to Stan.

  “Walked into the office one day.”

  “What with?”

  “Her husband.”

  “What for?”

  “A separation and an allowance.”

  “Does she like you?”

  “I think she likes me because I’m fat. I think most women love a fat man. At least I find it that way. But Bobbie wants to watch out or his wife’ll be landing down there.”

  “I didn’t know Bob was married.”

  “Neither did any one else but me.”

  “Who’s he married to?”

  “You’ve seen him with her. Calls herself Miss Ross. Her name is Rosenberg. She’s a Jewess. The poor bastard, I feel sorry for him. She made him think he had to marry her. Her people won’t have anything to do with him and he can’t take her around places with him because most of his friends know she’s a Jewess but they don’t know they’re married. See? It would be better if he’d come right out with it. As it is, he’s drinking himself cuckoo and hanging out with a lot of bums. I think it’d be a good thing for me if I broke loose from Bobbie. But he’s such a nice guy.”

  They decided to have an onion sandwich to take the whiskey smell off the breath before going home. While the Chink was making the sandwich Stan said protectively: “Don’t get the idea into your head that Anna’s a little trollop, she’s not. She probably never did a thing until recently.”

  “I didn’t think she was.”

  “The point is she might well be if she don’t watch out. She’d go to hell awfully quick right now just celebrating being away from that little runt of a husband. You should see him. He’s terrible.”

  The Chink pushed their plates along the marble counter. “I wonder if Stan’ll give me her phone number,” Harry thought. He hesitated because Stan was feeling too protective. Probably the crossword puzzle story, whatever it was, bothered him. Later on he would be in a generous humour.

  “How are things going in the yard, Harry?”

  “All right. There’s a guy there named Nash. A swell fellow just there for a month until he gets something else. We get on good together. He’s been around a lot. You ought to meet him.”

  “What’s so good about him?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Just his way, that’s all.”

  “Have you had a run-in yet with that guy Hohnsburger?”

  “No, but I can feel it coming.”

  “I’d hold my horses if I were you, you know.”

  They drank the coffee and went out.

  At home they smelt coffee. Mrs. Farrel and Vera were sitting at a bridge table with plates of cake and sandwiches. Pleasant and comfortable. Harry grinned at Vera. She looked directly at him, smiling happily, glad to see him.

  The Farrels left and Harry helped Vera do the few dishes. She washed and he dried them, talking casually because he was deliberately thinking of Anna. Her soft laziness, the effortless swing of her big body. It was possible to think of her without getting her mixed up with his wife. His curiosity for her had no relation to Vera. Stan would say it was on a technically different basis. He looked at Vera, drying a plate carefully, and laughed out loud. He went on thinking of Anna, though she wasn’t good enough to hold a candle for his wife. He thought vaguely of Anna.

  6

  He had dinner in the Chinese Café at the corner with Jimmie Nash, the fellow working in the yard for a month or two. Harry liked Nash; he got enthusiastic so easily. He was enthusiastic about Harry and had talked of the University and a Catholic professor who had been a good friend. He had been out of college for two years but had gone back to take a degree last term, though he had no idea why he wanted it except that his mother had been very anxious, and had cried when he had chucked it. He had worked on the boats and had been a magazine salesman, now he was sure he would be able to get on a newspaper. He talked engagingly, understanding most of Harry’s thoughts, creating an impression of being agreeable, considerate, though having many strong opinions which were modified by his habit of finishing, “Still, I don’t know, I don’t know.” It left room for further conversation.

  They were walking back from the café to
the yard. Men sitting on the sidewalk, backs to the brick wall of the yard office, did not look up at them. Harry knew they thought him a slave driver, but they kept out of his way and that satisfied him. Turning into the yard they punched the time clock, ten minutes early. They walked out into the yard and found a shaded alley between piles of lumber, and made pillows with their coats, stretching out, smoking. Harry was telling how he had often dreamed when a boy of owning a houseboat, sailing up and down the Mississippi. Sailing, not bothering about the time. He talked eagerly, feeling that the story in some way, offset Nash’s greater travelling experiences. He used to lie in bed, thinking of the houseboat. Sometimes even now, looking away beyond the piles of lumber when things were going slow, he thought of the Mississippi, though there was no reason for selecting that river in particular, probably because he knew nothing about it and it was wide and long.

  Jimmie shifted the conversation to women. He had some good stories and told them as if curious to see how Harry would react. One girl, a married English woman, quite willing, couldn’t figure out why he was interested in her. “She’s really a frost and so is her six-foot husband,” he said. “I think he tells her what a big bad guy he is.”