The Moon in the Gutter

12

He didn’t move. It was a kind of paralysis, as though he’d been hit on the skull with a sledge hammer, just hard enough to put him in a daze. The air became a tunnel of mist.

“Well?” she said.

He flinched. Again he sensed the flashing of the signal light. But now it didn’t give a warning. Instead it offered the blunt message: Too late now, you’re in it up to your neck, there’s no way out.

His lips moved mechanically. He told her to start the engine. And then, as the MG responded to the gas pedal, he watched the fading of the pastoral scene, the windshield framing a changing picture. He caught one final glimpse of moonlit water and serene meadowland. The car turned onto Wharf Street and he saw the rough cobblestones that smothered all the flowers. He saw the jagged splintered outlines of piers and warehouses. The car was approaching Vernon and now he could see the shacks and the tenements. He began to hear the night noises of Vernon Street, the yowling of alley cats, the barking of mongrels, the dismal drumming moaning sound that came from hundreds of overcrowded rooms.

“Slow down,” he said.

She looked at him. “Should I stop the car?”

“I didn’t say that. Just slow down.”

The car slackened speed. He sat stiffly, staring straight ahead. She kept giving him side glances.

Finally she murmured, “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” he said.

In the distance there was the clattering screech of domestic discord. From some third-floor flat the cracked soprano of a fishwife’s voice was a saw-toothed blade, while the rumbled oaths of the drunken husband were aimed past the woman, past the roof, going up to the sky.

And yet Kerrigan felt envious. The fishwife and her man would wind up in bed hugging each other. They’d stay together because they belonged together. They both came from the same roots, Vernon cradles.

He heard the calm voice of Loretta Channing, the voice of a stranger asking for directions. He scarcely heard his own reply. As he told her to make a turn on Vernon, a chorus of Vernon voices came to him with the sullen query, what’s she doing down here if she don’t know her way around.

On Vernon Street the car was moving very slowly. A stumbling drunk lurched into the path of the car, was missed by inches, and shouted some dirty words to the driver. The words were very dirty and she winced. Kerrigan looked back and recognized the man. It was his next-door neighbor.

She put more pressure on the gas pedal. The MG leaped away from the flood of obscenity.

She said, “I’m glad we got away from that.”

He told himself to keep his mouth shut.

At Third and Vernon he told her to make a right turn and they went down Third going past the street lamps, and toward the middle of the block he told her to stop the car. She looked at him questioningly. He pointed to a two-storied wooden dwelling that had a cardboard placard in its front window. The glow from the nearest street lamp showed two words scrawled in crayon on the placard. One word was in Greek letters. Under it was the same word in English — “Marriages.”

He motioned her out of the car. Then together they stood at the front door and he rapped his knuckles on the wood. There were no lights in the house and he had to rap for several minutes before the door opened. The old Greek stood there, wearing a tattered bathrobe, needing a shave, his eyes clouded with interrupted slumber.

“You got a license handy?” Kerrigan asked.

The Greek blinked once. Then he was fully awake. “Plenty of licenses,” he said. “I always have licenses.”

He was a small man in his middle seventies. His head was bald except for three little bushes of white hair, one above each ear and one in the center. He smiled and showed a toothless mouth. He said, “The ring. You have the ring?”

Kerrigan shook his head. He looked at Loretta. Her face was calm and she was gazing past the old Greek and breathing quietly and not saying anything.

The Greek said, “I’ll find a ring somewhere.”

He beckoned them into the house. In the small and shabby parlor he switched on a lamp, then went into another room. Loretta sat down on a flimsy chair. Kerrigan stood in the middle of the floor, not looking at her. His legs felt heavy, as though weighted with lead.

A few minutes passed, and then the Greek came into the parlor carrying a bottle of ink and a pen and a large sheet of white paper rolled up, fastened with a rubber band. He took off the rubber band and put the paper in Kerrigan’s hand. Kerrigan stared at the scrolled border and the printed words that told him he was looking at a marriage license. He swallowed very hard, and then he walked to the chair in which Loretta was seated and he said, “You sign it first.”

Loretta looked at the Greek. “Is this paper a legitimate document?”

The old man nodded emphatically. “It comes from City Hall. My son works in the Marriage Bureau. Tomorrow he takes it back and puts it in the file.”

She said quietly, “I want to be sure this is legal.”

Kerrigan frowned. “Sure it’s legal,” he said. “Look at the printing on it.”

The Greek said, “Nothing to worry about. I make real marriages. For many years I do this work. Never any trouble.”

“If it isn’t legal,” Loretta murmured, “it’s worthless, it doesn’t mean anything.”

The Greek twitched his lips and looked up at the ceiling. Then he glared at Loretta and said loudly, “This is genuine marriage license. I tell you it goes into the files.”

Loretta got up from the chair and walked to the small table where the Greek had placed the pen and the ink. She picked up the pen, dipped it in the ink bottle, and then for a long moment she stared at Kerrigan. His head was lowered and he was gazing at the carpet. Loretta took a deep breath and signed her name to the license and then she handed the pen to Kerrigan.

He moved slowly toward the table. The pen vibrated in his trembling hand. He knew she was watching him and he tried to keep his hand from trembling. The trembling became worse and he couldn’t move the pen toward the paper.

He heard her saying, “What are you waiting for?”

There was no way to answer that.

“Just sign your name,” she said. “That’s all you have to do. Put your name on the dotted line.”

He stood there gaping at the paper that had her name written on it, with the dotted line waiting for his name.

Then he heard the Greek saying, “Maybe this man cannot write. Many men they come here and they cannot write their name.”

“I can write,” Kerrigan mumbled. As he spoke, he could feel the perspiration dripping from his forehead.

“What is happening?” the Greek asked quietly and seriously. “Why you not sign the paper?”

“Don’t hurry him,” Loretta said. “Let him pull himself together.”

“He looks nervous,” the Greek said. “I think he is very nervous.”

“Really?” Her tone was musing. “I’d say that’s rather strange. After all, this was his idea.”

“Maybe he changes his mind.” The old man spoke solemnly. “After all, marriage is no joke. It is a big step. Many men, they get scared.”

“Well,” she said, “if he wants to back out, this is the time to do it.”

Kerrigan turned slowly and looked at her. She was smiling at him. He pivoted hard, bent over the table, and signed his name to the marriage license.

Then he picked up the license, shoved it at the old man, and said, “All right, let’s get this over with. Where’s the ring?”

The Greek put his hand in a pocket of the bathrobe, groped in there for a moment, and then took out a nickel-plated ring. It was thick and had a hinge that allowed it to open and close. Kerrigan took a closer look and saw it was a ring from a loose-leaf notebook.

“For God’s sake,” he said. “This ain’t no wedding ring.”

The old man shrugged. “It was all I could find.” He looked at Loretta and said, “Later he gets you a better ring. This one here is only for the ceremony.”

He handed the ring to Kerrigan. Then he opened a drawer of the table and took out a Bible. As he leafed through the pages, he said, “The price for the ceremony is two dollars and fifty-two cents. That is total price. Two dollars for performing marriage. Fifty cents for license. You will please pay in advance.”

Kerrigan frowned. “What’s the two cents for?”

“I charge two cents for ring,” the old man said. He kept his eyes on the printed text while extending his palm for the money. Then the money was in his hand and he averted his eyes from the Bible just long enough to count the cash. He put the bills and silver in the pocket of his bathrobe, took a firmer grip on the Bible, and said, “Now the bride will stand next to the groom.”

It was three hours later and Kerrigan had his head buried in a pillow. His eyes were shut tightly but he wasn’t asleep. He was trying to grope his way through the fog of an alcoholic stupor. It was apparent to him that he’d consumed an excessive amount of whisky, and now his brain was crammed with a lot of little discs that wouldn’t stop spinning. His skull felt as though it were swollen to many times its normal size. He told himself he was really in sad shape, and wondered how in hell he’d fallen into this condition.

He begged his mind to start working, to give him some information concerning tonight’s events, but his thoughts stumbled along a tricky path leading nowhere.

Then gradually the fog cleared just a little, the discs slowed down, and he realized he was coming out of it. As his brain went into gear, he kept his eyes shut, telling himself not to think about now, not even to take a look and see where he was. What he had to do was straighten the track and follow it very slowly and carefully and bring it up to now.

On the wall of his closed eyelids a light showed and then widened and it became a series of pictures that told him what had happened. He saw himself placing the ring on her finger. Then sound came into it and he heard the old man saying, “I now pronounce you husband and wife.” And then the old man was telling him to kiss her. She stood there smiling at him and waiting to be kissed. The old man said, “Go on, kiss her.” He glared at the old man and growled, “Goddamnit, mind your own business.” He heard her saying to the old man, “Please forgive my husband. I think he’s upset about something.”

The pictures continued. He saw himself walking out of the old Greek’s house, and heard her footsteps following. He turned and looked at her and said, “Where d’ya wanna go?” She shrugged and murmured, “It’s up to you.” He said loudly, “I guess we ought to celebrate.” She shrugged again, smiling pleasantly and saying, “Anything you say, dear.” And then the smile faded as she said, “You look as if you need a drink.”

He closed his eyes and saw more pictures. They were in the car and she had it headed down Third Street, then coming up Fourth and arriving on Vernon. She said, “You really need a drink, I know you do.” And then the MG was parked outside Dugan’s Den and they were entering the taproom. The place was empty now and Dugan was getting ready to close up for the night. Loretta put some money in Dugan’s hand and Dugan put a bottle on the bar. She poured the whisky into the jiggers. Then she lifted the glass and proposed a toast. “Here’s to our wedding night,” she said. He lifted his glass, gazed moodily at the amber liquor, then shot it down his throat. Again she tilted the bottle and filled the jiggers. She said, “Another toast. Here’s to my husband.” He looked at her and muttered, “Let’s get out of here. I don’t feel like drinking.” But a moment later he had the glass to his lips and then he was waiting for it to be filled again.

Then the picture got hazy. They stood there at the bar, and the glasses were filled and emptied and filled again. It went on and on like that, and then they were walking out of Dugan’s Den. Or rather, she was trying to keep him on his feet while he staggered toward the door. Then she helped him into the car and said, “Now you’re really drunk.” His head was down and he tried to lift it to look at her. But he couldn’t. And he couldn’t say anything.

The pictures were fading away but he managed to get a vague impression of the car coming to a stop, the weaving and stumbling as she helped him up some steps and through a doorway. He didn’t know what house it was, he didn’t know what room he was in now. For just the fraction of an instant he caught a flash of Loretta sitting on a sofa and watching him as he staggered across a room. Then everything was black and it stayed black. He buried his head deeper in the pillow and thought, The hell with it, in the morning you’ll find out where you are. But just then he felt the hand on his thigh.

My God, he thought, she’s in the bed with me.

He tried to pull way from the hand. An arm circled his middle and drew him closer to the warm softness of a woman.

“Come on,” the woman said. Her voice was languid. “Come on,” she said sleepily.

Again he tried to pull away. But now her grip was tighter.

“You hear me?” Her voice was louder. “I said come on.”

“No,” he mumbled. “Let go of me.”

“What? What’s that?”

“You hear me. Just keep away. Go back to sleep.”

“You kidding?”

“I’m telling you to let go. Stay on your side of the bed.”

“Are you talking to me?” Her tone was incredulous. “What’s wrong with you? Why do you have your clothes on?”

He frowned. Either her voice had changed or his drunkenness caused him to think it was someone else’s voice.

Or maybe it really was someone else’s voice.

His head moved on the pillow, and very slowly he turned over so that he could look at her face. While he turned, his eyes were wide open, and he saw the dark wall, the moonlit ceiling, then the window that showed the moon far out there. The moon was like a big spotlight that seemed to be focused on himself and his companion.

He was staring at her.

It was his stepmother.

Their eyes were only inches apart and they were gaping at each other as though they couldn’t believe what they saw. Lola had her mouth opened as wide as she could get it. Her lungs made a dragging sound as she gasped for air.

Kerrigan groaned without sound. He seriously pondered the problem of how to become invisible.

For a long moment neither of them could move. They just went on gaping at each other. Then all at once Lola gave him a violent push that hurled him off the edge of the bed. He landed on the floor with a heavy thud. For purely practical reasons he decided to stay there for the time being. He stayed there and listened to the sound of the bedsprings as Lola’s ponderous weight came off the mattress, then rapid and frantic sounds as she moved around and tried to find something to cover her.

The sounds went on as he sat there on the floor and groaned and sighed and pressed his hands to his head. He heard the noise of the closet door, the rustling of fabrics as clothes were pulled from hangers. He was half sobered now, and he began to consider the feasibility of a fast exit from the room.

But before he could arrive at a decision, there was the click of a wall switch and the room was brightly lit. He blinked several times and then he looked up and saw the big woman who stood there wearing a nightgown. She had her hands on her hips, her eyes a pair of seething caldrons.

“What is this?” she demanded. “What the hell goes on here?”

He choked, gulped hard, choked again, then blurted, “It’s nothing, I just made a mistake.”

As he said it, he realized how stupid and crazy it sounded. He blinked again, gazing blankly at the face of his stepmother. But she was looking at the empty bed, focusing on the pillow that should have shown her husband’s face but showed only a question mark.

“Where is he?” she asked loudly. “Where’s your father?”

Kerrigan lifted himself from the floor. He sat down on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. He made a vague guess as to where his father was. Chances were that Tom was in the house of Rita Montanez.

Lola said, “He claimed he hadda go to the bathroom.” Her eyes narrowed. “I’m gonna have a look,” she muttered grimly, “and he’d better be in there.”

She went out of the room. Kerrigan groped through the haze of his drunkenness and told himself to make a rapid trip to Rita’s house and drag Tom out of there. But as he lifted himself from the bed, the floor seemed to slant and he had trouble staying on his feet.

And as he moved toward the door, the whisky in his veins made it several doors instead of one. He was still trying to find the right door when Lola re-entered the room.

“He ain’t in the bathroom,” she announced through tightened lips. She glared at Kerrigan. She said accusingly, “What are you and him up to?”

He sat down very slowly and carefully on a chair that wasn’t there. Again he was on the floor, wondering what had happened to the chair.

Lola studied him for a long moment. “How many quarts did you drink?”

He shrugged kind of sadly. “I didn’t have much. Guess I can’t hold it.”

“The hell you can’t. From the looks of you, you’re holding a gallon.”

She took hold of his wrists, pulled him up from the floor, and put him in the chair that he hadn’t been able to find. “Now then,” she said, “I want some information. Where is he?”

Kerrigan stared dumbly at Tom’s wife and said, “Maybe he went for a walk.”

“At this time of night? Where would he walk?”

The whisky fog came drifting in. Kerrigan blinked several times and said, “Maybe he got lost.” He gazed longingly at the bed and thought how pleasant it would be to go back to sleep.

Lola studied him once more and saw he was in no condition to give sensible answers. She gestured disgustedly and turned her back to him.

Suddenly she snapped her fingers. Then her head turned from side to side as she made a hasty examination of the room.

“Sure enough,” she said. “His clothes ain’t here.”

She started to take deep breaths. Lola was about to lose her temper on a grand scale.

Despite his drunkenness, he managed to say, “No use getting sore about it. After all, it’s a helluva hot night. Maybe he went out for a bottle of beer. To cool himself off.”

“I’ll cool him off,” Lola said. “I’ll break his goddamn neck, that’s what I’ll do.”

She started to move around the room, searching for a suitable weapon. Kerrigan winced as he saw her lifting a thick glass ash tray, hefting it in her hand to test the weight of it. Apparently it wasn’t heavy enough. She slammed it to the floor, then darted to the open closet and reached in and pulled out a long-handled scrubbing brush. The business end of the brush was an inch of bristles and a two-inch thickness of wood.

Lola had a firm grip on the handle of the brush. She held it with both hands, aiming it at empty air and taking a few practice swipes. Then, wanting a better target, she looked around for something solid. Kerrigan heard footsteps in the hall and he thought, It’s gonna be crowded in here.

The door opened and Tom walked in. An instant later there was a loud whacking noise and Tom yelled, “Ouch!” Then there was more whacking, more yelling, and considerable activity. Tom was trying to run in several directions at once. He collided with Kerrigan, bounced away, staggered sideways, and received a wallop from Lola that spun him around like a punching bag. He tried to crawl under the bed, but there wasn’t enough space between the springs and the floor. He was much too bulky to squeeze through. The flat side of the brush landed on him and in a frenzied effort to get away from the blows he gave a mighty heave with his shoulders, so that the bed was raised on two legs. He heaved again and the bed fell over on its side. Lola kept swinging the brush and Tom was asking her to wait just a minute so they could talk it over. Lola’s reply was another whack. The sound resembled a pistol shot. Tom looked at Kerrigan and shouted, “For God’s sake, make her stop.”

Kerrigan shrugged, as though to say there was no way to stop Lola once she got started. He grinned stupidly, drunkenly, and then he started toward the door. But again it was several doors, and it seemed as if the ceiling were coming down. He couldn’t stay on his legs. The floor came up and he was flat on his face. The dazed grin remained on his lips as he heard the continued uproar. Somehow the noise of the violence was softened in his whisky-drenched brain. It was strangely soothing, almost like a lullaby. For a hazy instant he tried to understand it. But the feeling was so pleasant, so comforting, it told him to fall asleep, just fall asleep. And as the blackness enveloped him, he sensed there was nothing strange about it, after all. It was merely the sound of the house where he lived. It was as though he’d been away and he’d come back, and it was nice to be home again.