Rose's Last Summer [= The Lively Corpse]

11

The sign across the front of the grey concrete building said Horace M. Goodfield Doll Corporation, San Francisco, California. Standing stiff and flat-footed on top of this sign was a wooden doll twenty feet high. Years of sun had bleached away her smile and left her hair a dusty grey, and the fog that rolled in from the bay had blurred her eyes. They stared vacantly out at the passing ships, like the eyes of a heathen idol watching without interest or concern its foolish worshippers. The doll’s name was printed across her flat, faded chest: Sweetheart.

Frank knew from the noise of machines that the factory was operating, but he had the impression that it would stop at any moment, freeze into immobility like the wooden doll. The building itself bore the marks of neglect, as if no one cared enough about it to replace broken glass or repaint the sills or patch up the holes in the concrete.

The old man sitting in a chair at the entrance gate matched the building. No one cared about him either. His face was the same color as the concrete, and his eyes had the dinginess of unwashed windows. He looked at Frank, rubbing the arthritis-swollen knuckles of his hands.

Frank noticed that he was wearing a shoulder holster. “You work here?”

“Worked here for twenty-two years.” The old man spoke in a monotone. “First I was inside. I painted their faces for them. Delicate work, but I had good nerves. My hands got bad, though. So then they gave me this here chair and this here automatic and says, now you’re a guard, Charley. Charley’s my name.”

“Mine’s Clyde. Know how to use the gun?”

“Sure I do.”

“Ever used it?”

“Once. A fellow broke in and I shot at him. I missed. Turned out he was a maniac crazy about dolls. They put him away in some place, I heard. It was the first maniac I ever saw, didn’t froth at the mouth or nothing, looked as normal as you and me.”

“You’ve worked for the Goodfields a long time, eh?”

“Twenty-two years, like I said. Why, I gave Sweetheart up there her first coat of paint.”

“She looks as if she could use another.”

“That’s what I keep saying, but nobody takes mind of me. Nothing gets done around here anymore at all since old Horace died. Not that Horace was any great shakes as a businessman, but he cared. He was an artist. Why, single-handed, him and me designed Sweetheart, clothes and everything. Horace,” he repeated, “was a real artist.”

“What happened after he died?”

“They buried him.”

“You have quite a sense of humor, Charley.”

“I could always look on the funny side of things.”

“Now try looking on the other side. What happened to the factory after Horace died?”

“Nothing happened except one day a guy shows up with a lot of begonia bulbs. Planted a dozen of them in this here very spot where I’m sitting.”

“Why begonias?”

“Because Horace left the whole factory, lock, stock and barrel, to his wife, and she thought it’d be kind of pretty to have some flowers growing around.”

“Did she take over the factory?”

“Well, for a while she came in bright and early every morning and said hello to everyone. Inside of a week she knew more about the people who worked here than they knew about themselves. Like a mother to them, Mrs. Goodfield was. Only they didn’t need a mother, they needed some new machinery and better washrooms and a heating plant that didn’t go on the fritz twice a week.”

He spat on the ground where the begonias had once been planted. Then he looked up at the wooden doll again, squinting, though there was no sun.

“No sir, poor old Sweetheart don’t have much of a future. One of these days the termites will find her and then, phhhtt.”

Frank wondered whether the termites hadn’t already found her. He said, “Have you seen Mrs. Goodfield recently?”

“She don’t come around no more. Lost interest, I guess, when she found out nobody needed an extry mother. Also she got sick, had to rest a lot. That’s when she divided all the stock up and gave it to the children.”

“Who runs the business now?”

“Who runs it? Everybody runs it. Willett runs it. Jack runs it. I run it. Hell, if you stick around long enough, you’ll be running it, too. This pie has got so many pinkies in it that there ain’t going to be any pie left.”

“Is the place losing money?”

“No sir, we get the same volume of business year after year. Same customers wanting the same thing, a good cheap doll.”

“What’s the beef then?”

Charley peered at him out of his unwashed eyes. “You a businessman?”

“No.”

“I thought not or you wouldn’t ask silly questions. A business can’t stand still. If it don’t move forward it moves back like the tail of a clock. And with a small business like this, it don’t take much to ruin it. A few extra taxes here and a few wage increases there, and where are you? Flat on your butt, wondering what hit you. That’s where I landed back in twenty-nine. Horace gave me a job. He used to be one of my customers when the wife and me still had the laundry.”

The old man lapsed into silence, a puzzled expression on his face, as if he was wondering how it had all happened; where had the years and the laundry and Horace gone, and how did he come to be here, in this chair, with a gun, guarding a senile giant of a doll?

The fog was beginning to blow in from the bay, like dirty grey sheets on a moving clothesline. Somewhere close by, a fog horn bellowed. Charley shivered, and turned up the collar of his leather jacket.

“I saw Willett Goodfield and his wife last week,” Frank said. “They’re in La Mesa, down south.”

“So I heard.”

“They seem to be living very comfortably.”

“That’s the only way they know how to live. Yet. Yet,” he repeated. “They’ll be pulling in their horns one of these days. Wait’ll the old lady dies and they got inheritance taxes to pay.”

“If she’s already given them the stock, there won’t be any inheritance taxes.”

Charley stared at him with reluctant approval. “By George, you’re right. Never thought of that myself. But there’ll be other things, make no mistake about that. When the old lady dies, there’ll be a good old-fashioned bust-up. Want to bet on it?”

“Not particularly.”

“I’m not a betting man either but I can read the handwriting on the wall. Do you know Shirley?”

“No.”

“Shirley’s the Goodfield girl. Woman she is now but she was a girl when I first saw her. She’s the only one of the family with a head on her shoulders. Takes after Horace, even in looks. But Shirley couldn’t stand the old lady. Left home when she was seventeen and got married. She don’t come around here no more.”

“Why not?”

“No time. She’s a widow with four kids.”

“Where does she live now?”

“Home.”

“Whose home?”

“Horace’s place up on Nob Hill. It’s a good big place with plenty of valuables and antiques in it. When Mrs. Goodfield left to go traveling around, she didn’t want the house to be empty, so Shirley and her kids, they have the first floor, and Jack, he has the second. That way it saves rent, and the valuables and antiques get looked after.”

“What’s left of them after the four kids get through.”

Charley grinned. “My oh my oh my. Wait till the old lady comes back and finds something missing like she did last time. That woman has a tongue that would cut concrete, yes sir, concrete.”

The fog horn blew again, its enraged bellow shook the air and frightened the ships at sea.

Following the bellow came the quick slam of a door. A tall, young man in a dark business suit walked briskly down the steps toward the gate where Charley was sitting. The man had curly straw-colored hair carefully parted to disguise the thinning circle on top. He walked as though he took pride in his body and kept it in the best of physical condition, as Mrs. Goodfield kept her valuables and antiques.

Charley bent over and pretended to be engrossed in tying the lace of one of his workboots.

“Charley.”

The old man straightened up, making a funny little sound that was barely audible.

“I presume you still work here, Charley?”

“Yes, Mr. Jack.”

“I’ve had to warn you before about standing around talking like this.”

“A little talk never hurt—”

“I’m sure your friend here will excuse you while you go on your rounds.”

Jack Goodfield gave Frank one sweeping and contemptuous glance and then marched back into the building like a general who hadn’t yet discovered that his army had been cut down behind him.

Charley took out a black and white bandana and blew his nose into it and cursed. Frank, who had heard, and been the object of, considerable cursing, was impressed by Charley’s vocabulary.

“Sorry if I caused you any trouble,” Frank said. “I came here to see Goodfield, as a matter of fact.”

But Charley had apparently lost interest in the whole affair. Getting up, he adjusted his shoulder holster and began to shuffle toward the side of the building. The general still had one man left.

The air inside the building was very warm and dry after the cold dampness of the fog. At the desk where the workers punched the time clock, a young girl was writing a letter on deep mauve stationery. Through the glass partition behind her Frank could see two rows of women at work over a long table. They looked as identical as the dolls’ heads they were painting.

Seeing Frank, the girl put down her pen but made no attempt to hide the letter. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“I’d like to talk to Mr. Jack Goodfield.”

“If it’s a matter of employment, we’re full up.”

“It’s not.”

“All right. That’s Mr. Goodfield’s office right across the hall. Just walk in. His secretary, Mrs. Hiller, is right there — I think.” She added the last two words with a curiously deliberate air, and then she picked up her pen and resumed writing on the mauve notepaper. Before he turned away Frank noticed that she wrote uphill, in a disturbed fashion.

He crossed the hall, unconsciously straightening his shoulders as if to shake off the office he was still carrying four hundred miles from home.

Mrs. Hiller was not at her desk but her name card was: Evangeline Hiller. It was a new and very elaborate name card in a blue plastic container. The rest of the office seemed shabby by comparison.

Frank sat down to wait opposite a blown-up photograph of an office picnic dated in ink at the bottom, July 4, 1932, Muir Park.

The door marked John J. Goodfield opened suddenly and Mrs. Hiller plunged into the room with the reluctant thrust of a diver plunging into cold water. Her body, wrapped in a tight silk jersey dress, was mature and fullblown. Above the shoulders she looked very young and surprised as if she couldn’t understand what in the world had happened below. She was flushed, her long, brown hair was mussed and she was breathing fast and hard. It seemed to Frank that she had been running, a lap or two, perhaps, around the building to set a good example for Charley.

To cover her confusion she addressed Frank in a voice that sounded much too genteel. “If you wish to speak to Mr. Goodfield, sir, I’m afraid he just stepped out a moment ago.”

“When will he be back?”

“Oh, he won’t be back. That is, he won’t be back today, I mean. He had an urgent call.”

“That’s too bad.”

“Very urgent.” Mrs. Hiller swallowed hard, her whole throat convulsing. “Sickness.”

“Whose?”

“Somebody got sick, is all. A friend of Jack’s — Mr. Goodfield’s.”

“And Mr. Goodfield went to soothe the fevered brow?”

“Sure he did. I guess.” Mrs. Hiller’s gentility had vanished, like a popsicle on the sidewalk leaving a small irregular sticky puddle. “He’ll be back maybe tomorrow.”

From inside the office came a soft sound like the drawer of a desk or a filing cabinet sliding into place. The girl heard it, too. She clutched at her throat as if she was choking, and said loudly, “Maybe tomorrow, maybe the next day. This friend of his is, real sick.”

Frank wondered if the friend was as sick as Mrs. Hiller looked. “I’m afraid I can’t wait that long.”

She attempted to disguise her obvious relief by saying, “Oh dear, that’s too bad, isn’t it? I mean, Jack — Mr. Goodfield will be terribly sorry to’ve missed you.”

“He doesn’t know me.”

“Well, he... he... just hates to miss people. Anyone.”

“A friendly type, eh?”

“Oh yes, very. Now if you’ll just leave your name, I’ll make sure that he finds out you were here.”

“My name’s Frank Clyde.”

“And your business?”

“I’m a social worker.”

“A... social worker?” Mrs. Hiller’s mouth gaped like a hungry carp’s. “Oh? I don’t believe it.”

“Why shouldn’t you believe it?”

“Well, because. What would a social worker have to do with Jack? Jack’s a millionaire.”

There was a brief silence before Frank spoke again in a friendly, reasonable way as if he was addressing a strange child. “Does this look like a millionaire’s office to you?”

The girl glanced around the tiny room, biting the edge of her lower lip. “Well, gee, I don’t know, I never saw a millionaire’s office before.”

“Have you seen any office before?”

“Just what do you mean by that? I’m a secretary. A private secretary. I took a course. I graduated.”

“Did—”

“With honors. So don’t go making any more crumby remarks about me being a birdbrain. I’m sick of being called a birdbrain by a lot of other birdbrains.”

“I didn’t call you anything. I just wondered if this was your first job.”

Mrs. Hiller stuck her head in the air and held the pose. “Don’t you go social-workering me, Mr. Social Worker. I don’t need any.”

“Your conception of a social worker is—”

“And don’t go saying any dirty words either.”

“I’m afraid you misunderstood.”

“Oh, did I? Don’t tell me I don’t know a dirty word if I hear one.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“Well, that’s better.” Mrs. Hiller seemed slightly mollified. “And don’t tell me I don’t know about social workers either. Back when I was a kid we were on relief and those creeps were always coming around to see that we spent enough money on milk. Milk, yet. Nobody ever got filled up on milk. Just try it sometime.”

“I don’t check up on any family finances.” Except my own, he added silently.

“My finances happen to be swell. This dress I got on cost forty dollars plus tax.”

“It’s very pretty.”

“You think so?” The girl smiled, without meaning to. She was as sensitive to a compliment as she was to a criticism. “I think so, too. It’s from Magnin’s. I only got it on Saturday at a sale. It was regular $59.95 and the pleats will stay in forever.”

Frank wondered which pleats would persist longer, the ones outside Mrs. Hiller or the ones inside. “Is this your first job?”

“In a way. I don’t have to work. I’ve got a husband; he’s a cook in the army, stationed at Fort Ord. He supports me. And Jack — Mr. Goodfield pays me very well.”

Frank didn’t have to ask what for.

He said goodbye to Mrs. Hiller and she responded very pleasantly. It was clear that she thought she had given a good account of herself, that she had, in her own fashion, bitten the leg of the social worker who’d come to check up on the milk; and having administered the bite, she felt no further resentment.

Outside, the sheets of fog had coagulated into a flabby grey wall. Moisture condensed on Frank’s forehead and ran down his cheeks like cold griefless tears.

Charley’s chair stood by the gate looking empty and forlorn.

Frank let himself out through the gate and walked down the driveway, the wall of fog moving always a little ahead of him in a tantalizing way. Before he reached the street, a man’s figure appeared suddenly out of the fog.

It was Charley. He was shivering with cold and his leather jacket and peaked cap were dripping wet, but he had a funny little grin on his face.

“You find Mr. Jack, buddy?”

“No.”

“Want to know why not? He ain’t there.”

“So I found out.”

“He took a powder. Jumped into that convertible of his and beat it like he was shot out of a cannon. Which it’s too bad he wasn’t. Now I just wonder why he left so sudden-like, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“While you were inside there I gave you a little figuring-out in my head. You’re a policeman, aren’t you?”

Frank was vaguely flattered. He had no idea that he looked in the least authoritative or official. “No, I’m not.”

Charley seemed disappointed. “I was hoping maybe you’d come to pick up Evangeline and take her to a detention home. Evangeline. Say, how do you like that for the name of a slut. Evangeline.” He spit on the sidewalk vigorously. “Wiggles her hips in and out that gate twenty times a day. Gotta go down to the drugstore for coffee, she says. Or gotta have her hair done. Or gotta go shopping. If Mrs. Goodfield knew what was going on, she’d have a stroke. She’s real strict about things.”

Frank wondered. From what Greer had told him about the old lady, he gathered that she wasn’t quite as strict as she pretended.

“The girl’s married,” Frank said.

“Since when does being married keep a slut from slutting? Since never. To tell you confidential, I got a sneaking sympathy for Mr. Jack. He’ll never be the same, mark my words. Well, I gotta go now. It’s been nice talking to you.” Charley held out his gnarled hand and Frank shook it. “Soon as you came up to the gate I said to myself, now that’s a nice open face.”

“Thank you.”

“You come back again. Maybe by that time I’ll have Sweetheart all fixed up pretty like she used to be.”

“I may be back.”

“You do that.”

“Goodbye, Charley,” Frank said.

He turned and headed for his car. Sweetheart witnessed his departure without interest.