The Moon in the Gutter

9

He walked slowly along Wharf, came onto Vernon Street, then walked west on Vernon toward home. The slimy water in the gutter was lit with pink fire from the evening sun, and he looked up and saw it big and very red up there, the flares shooting out from the blazing sphere, merging with the orange clouds, so that the sky was like a huge opal, the glowing colors floating and blending, and it was really something to look at. He thought, It’s tremendous. And he wondered if anyone else was looking up at it right now and thinking the same thing.

But as his gaze returned to the street he saw the dirty-faced kids playing in the gutter, he saw a drunk sprawled on a doorstep, and three middle-aged colored men sitting on the curb and drinking wine from a bottle wrapped in an old newspaper.

Under the vermilion glory of the evening sun, the vast magnificence of an opal sky, the Vernon Street citizens had no idea of what was up there, they scarcely bothered to glance up and see. All they knew was that the sun was still high, and it would be one hell of a hot night. Already the older folks were coming out of shacks and tenements to sit on doorsteps with paper fans and pitchers of water. The families who were lucky enough to have ice in the house were holding chunks of it in their mouths and trying to beat the heat that way. And a few of them, just a very few, were giving nickels to their children, to purchase flavored ice on sticks. The kids shrieked with glee, but their happy sound was drowned in the greater noise, the humming noise that was one big groan and sigh, the noise that came from Vernon throats, yet seemed to come from the street itself. It was as though the street had lungs and the only sounds it could make were the groan and the sigh, the weary acceptance of its fourth-class place in the world. High above it there was a wondrous sky, the fabulous colors in the orbit of the sun, but it just didn’t make sense to look up there and develop pretty thoughts and hopes and dreams.

The realization came to Kerrigan like the sudden blow of a hammer, putting him down on solid ground where a spade was never anything but a spade. He looked at the torn leather of his workshoes, the calloused flesh of his hands. He thought, You better wise up to yourself and stay out of the clouds.

His mouth hardened. His hand moved toward the pants pocket where he had the camera. He asked himself what he was going to do with it.

All right, he thought, it ain’t no problem. All you gotta do is find out where she lives and mail it to her.

But he could visualize her face as she opened the package and saw the camera. He could see her lips curved in contempt, and almost hear her saying to herself, He’s afraid to come here and ring the doorbell.

He wondered what would happen if he went up there to the uptown street where she lived, and actually rang the doorbell. Hell, he thought, what’s there to be scared about? Nobody’s gonna bite you. But damn it, you’d be out of place up there.

Maybe it would be all right if he looked decent, if he was bathed and shaved and properly dressed. He needed a bath anyway, and it wasn’t as though he’d be using soap just to pass some sort of test. It wouldn’t hurt him to put on his Sunday clothes. There wasn’t any law that said he had to wear them only on Sunday.

Maybe it would really be all right, and these uptown characters wouldn’t give him any trouble. Maybe they wouldn’t notice that he was different, that he didn’t belong.

But no. In no time at all they’d have him sized up, they’d see him for what he was. Perhaps they’d try to be polite and not say anything, but he’d know what they were thinking. It would show in their eyes, no matter how they tried to hide it.

The thing to do, he told himself, was take this goddamn camera and throw it down a sewer or someplace. Just get rid of it.

And there it was again, the stabbing thought that he didn’t have the guts to face the situation squarely. He was frightened, that was all.

He walked on down Vernon Street, wondering what to do with the camera.

Arriving at the Kerrigan house, he opened the front door and walked into the parlor. He glanced at the sofa, where Tom was snoring loudly, holding a half-empty beer bottle, the picture of utter contentment.

The only sound in the parlor was the noise coming from the kitchen, the clatter of dishes, the loud voices of Lola and Bella. At first he paid no attention to what they were saying, and his thoughts played idly with the idea that he ought to go in there and get some supper. He wondered if there was anything warm on the stove.

He started across the parlor, headed toward the kitchen, and then he heard Bella yelling, “Just wait till I see that two-timing sneak. Wait till I get my hands on him.”

“You’ll leave him alone,” Lola shouted at her daughter. “If you know what’s good for you, you won’t start anything.”

“It’s already started,” Bella raged. “What do I look like, an idiot or something? You think I’ll let him push me around and make a fool of me? I warned him what would happen if he messed around. I’m gonna show that louse I mean what I say.”

“Not in this house you won’t,” Lola shouted.

“The hell I won’t,” Bella blazed. “And you won’t stop me, neither.”

There was the smacking sound of a hand against a face. He heard Bella screaming. Then another smack. And Bella screamed again.

He heard Lola say, “Talk back again and I’ll slap you so hard you’ll go through the wall.”

Then it was quiet in the kitchen. Kerrigan decided to wait just a little while longer before having supper, and perhaps Bella would be cooled off entirely by the time he was ready to eat.

He walked down the hall and into his room and took off his clothes. Then he went into the bathroom, filled the tub, and climbed in and soaped his body. In his room again, he put on a clean shirt and shorts and socks, opened the closet door and took a gray worsted suit off the hanger. It was his Sunday suit, the only suit he owned, and it needed pressing, some sewing here and there, and one of the buttons was missing. As he stood before the mirror, pulling at the lapels and trying to stretch the fabric to get rid of the wrinkles, he wished he had a better suit to wear. And while the thought ran through his mind, he was slowly lowering the camera into the jacket pocket.

He slipped a tie under his collar, knotted it three times before he was satisfied, then leaned close to the mirror and gave his wet combed hair a few final pats with his palms. Stepping back from the mirror, he studied himself from various angles, frowned appraisingly, then shrugged and decided that it would have to do.

Coming into the kitchen, he saw Lola arranging the dishes on a shelf. Bella was at the sink with a towel in her hands. The moment she saw him, her face darkened and reddened and fire came into her eyes. She took a deep breath and opened her mouth to say something. But from the other side of the room she saw her mother watching her. She took another deep breath and shut her mouth tightly and closed her eyes, grimly trying to control her temper.

Lola was smiling at Kerrigan and saying, “Want something to eat?”

He nodded and sat down at the splintered table, which had several match books under one leg to keep it balanced. Bella had turned back to the sink as if she had no idea he was in the room. But he could hear her breathing heavily and he knew she was having a hard time holding back the rage that strained to break loose.

Lola picked up a large spoon and moved majestically toward the stove. She was an excellent cook, extremely proud of it, and always anxious to prove it. She bent over the stove, studied the contents of a huge pot and a couple of smaller ones, and murmured, “It’ll take just a minute to warm up.”

“No hurry,” Kerrigan said. He lit a cigarette and leaned back.

Lola was stirring the spoon in the pots, lifting the spoon to her mouth, testing the flavor of the beef stew and the rice and the summer squash.

“Needs pepper,” Lola murmured. She looked at Bella and said, “Get me the pepper.”

“Let him get it.” Bella spaced the words distinctly.

“I told you to get it,” Lola said.

Bella sucked air in between her teeth. She moved away from the sink, opened the kitchen cabinet, and grabbed at the pepper shaker. She brought it to the table and slammed it down in front of Kerrigan.

“Not there,” Lola said. “I told you to bring it here. To me. And bring your face here so I can smack it again.”

Bella swallowed hard. She was afraid to move. Kerrigan reached for the pepper shaker and handed it to Lola, who took it without looking at it. Lola aimed a dim but dangerous smile at her daughter.

“You’re gonna get it,” Lola said. “I can see you’re itching for it, and before the night’s over you’re gonna get it like you never got it before. I’m telling you, girl, you got a rotten evil temper and I’m gonna knock it out of you if I have to break every bone in your body.”

Bella’s lips were trembling. She started toward the doorway leading out of the kitchen. Lola caught her arm, pulled her away from the doorway, then shoved her back to the sink.

“You ain’t finished here yet,” Lola said. “You gotta do them knives and forks. And when he’s through eating, you’ll have his plates to do.”

Bella seemed to be choking. “Me do his plates? I gotta clean up after him?”

“You heard me,” Lola said.

Kerrigan squirmed in his chair. “I can wash my own dishes.”

“I said she’s gonna wash them,” Lola said loudly and firmly.

Kerrigan shrugged. He knew there was no use arguing with Lola.

She heaped his plate with the beef stew and the rice and the squash. She put six slices of bread on the plate, poured coffee into a thick cup, then backed away from the table and watched him tackle the meal.

Kerrigan ate slowly, chewing thoroughy, savoring each mouthful. As he sat there enjoying the meal, the kitchen was quiet except for the busy noise of his knife and fork on the plate. He completely forgot the presence of Bella, whose eyes alternated between raging glares at him and wary glances at her mother.

His plate was empty now, and Lola said, “Ready for more?”

He nodded, pushing bread into his mouth.

Lola looked at Bella and said, “Don’t stand there. Pick up his plate.”

Bella swallowed hard. Her voice cracked slightly as she stared pleadingly at her mother and said, “It ain’t bad enough I gotta wash his dishes. Now you want me to bring him his meal. Like a servant.”

Lola’s eyes softened just a little. She shook her head slowly. “No,” she murmured. “Not like a servant. After all, you’re his woman, ain’t you?”

Kerrigan winced. He looked up and studied Lola’s face and all at once he knew what was in her mind. In her own blunt way she was saying to her daughter, If you want him for a husband, I’ll show you how to get him.

He shifted uncomfortably in the chair. He had a strange feeling that the walls were closing in on him and he itched to get out of the house. Until now it hadn’t occurred to him that Lola wanted him for a son-in-law. But as he noticed how Lola was nodding approvingly, he realized there was a plan in action, and for a fearful moment he could see himself married to Bella.

But then, as the steaming food was placed before him and he saw the smooth richness of Bella’s skin, he said to himself, Why not?

He watched her as she turned away from the table, and saw how her hips moved. The construction was there, the face was there, and all he had to do was buy her a ring and he’d have all that for keeps.

Another thing. He’d soon be thirty-five and it was high time he got married. What the hell was he waiting for?

He pictured himself putting the ring on Bella’s finger. He had the feeling it would settle a lot of questions that clouded his brain and circled around in there, a vague merry-go-round of issues that he just couldn’t figure out. Since last night he’d been walking back and forth in a fog, doing things he didn’t want to do, operating way off the beam and wondering what in God’s name it was all about. Things had happened much too fast, making him dizzy, taking his feet off the ground. But there was a fast way to fix all that.

There’d be no problem in finding the right person to perform a quick ceremony. On Third Street, off Vernon, a little old Greek was capable of legally tying the knot in a matter of seconds. The Greek’s son worked in City Hall, in the Marriage Bureau, and was faced with no trouble at all when it came to stealing licenses. The father and son were extremely popular in the neighborhood, for when Vernon men decided to make it legal, they didn’t like to wait.

A blunt voice cut in on his thoughts. He heard Bella saying, “More coffee?”

He looked up. She was standing at the stove. He glanced around the kitchen, but Lola wasn’t there and he wondered when she’d walked out of the room. Then he gazed down at his plate and saw that it was empty and he couldn’t remember having finished the second helping.

“Come out of it,” Bella said, and he knew she’d been watching him for some time. “I asked you if you want more coffee.”

He nodded. But it wasn’t for the coffee. It was just to make a reply.

Bella brought the percolator to the table and poured coffee into his cup. She poured a cup for herself and sat down across from him. Then she put cigarettes on the table and asked him if he wanted one. He nodded again, looking at her intently and trying to establish contact with her. As he leaned forward to get the light from the match she offered, he wondered what the hell was wrong here. He had the downright uncanny feeling that he wasn’t here in the kitchen with Bella, he was someplace else.

“What is it?” Bella said. “What’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing.” He shrugged. “I had a rough day.”

“You look it,” she murmured. “Who slugged you?”

“It happened on the pier. It didn’t last long.”

“They carry him away?”

“No,” he said. “They carried me.”

She gave him a side glance. “How come? Lose your punch?”

He didn’t say anything. He sipped at the coffee and took long drags at the cigarette and tried not to look at her. But he was focusing on her face, and seeing a parade of questions coming out of her eyes. He compared her present mood with the explosive anger of minutes ago, and realized that she’d calmed down considerably, almost to the point of passivity. He’d never seen her like this, and it made him uneasy. His throat felt tight and he worked his head from side to side, trying to loosen his collar.

“Unbutton it,” she said.

“It’s all right.”

“Don’t you feel hot? Why don’t you take your jacket off?”

“I want it on.” He spoke just a little louder. “You don’t mind, do you?”

He was hoping she’d curse him, or say anything that would get the shouting started, their normal means of communication.

But all she said was, “Of course I don’t mind. I just want you to be comfortable.”

“All right, I’m comfortable. You satisfied?”

She didn’t reply. For some moments she just sat there looking at him. Then, in a strangely quiet tone, “I want to know why you’re all dressed up.”

He opened his mouth to give her an answer. His mouth stayed open but no sound came out.

Bella leaned forward, her elbows on the table. “Come on, let’s have it. You might as well tell me who she is. I’ve seen her already.”

He blinked a few times.

“Last night,” Bella said. “I was in bed, waiting for you. When you didn’t come in, I got up to see what you were doing. I went into the parlor and took a look through the front window. I saw you talking to her. And then the two of you got into the car and drove away.”

He managed to look away from her. “It wasn’t what you think.”

Her face was expressionless. “I haven’t told you what I think. I’m waiting to hear what your plans are.”

“What plans?”

Bella’s eyes were drills going into him. “You and her.”

“For God’s sake!” He shouted it, and jumped up from the table. “What are you building here? That broad don’t mean a thing to me. I hardly even know her!”

He jammed his hands into his trousers pockets and started to walk up and down alongside the table.

“Another thing,” Bella said. “You didn’t come home last night. I stayed up, waiting for you. Where’d you go? Where’d you sleep?”

The floor seemed to be moving under his feet and he wished it would keep on moving and take him away from all these questions he couldn’t handle. But the floor kept him there near the table, holding him on the track, setting him there like a slowly moving target while the sharpshooter took aim.

Then Bella shot it at him. “Whoever she is, she’s doing something to you. She’s got you wrapped around her finger.”

It was like a crowbar hitting him in the eyes. He backed away from the table, staring at Bella. “What gives you that crazy idea?”

“I can tell. It’s plastered all over your face.”

He took several deep breaths. But that didn’t help. He turned his back to the table, folded his arms, and glowered at the floor.

And he heard Bella saying, “You see what I mean? It shows. You can’t even look me in the eye.”

For a moment he wished he were one of the smooth talkers, the con artists who could handle this sort of thing and slide out of it without any trouble. But then, as he pivoted hard and faced her, he was glaring and his voice was blunt. “Now listen,” he said. “I’ll tell you once and then it’s ended, you hear? There ain’t a goddamn thing happening with me and that chippy. She’s one of them phonys from uptown. She came down here to play around and get some kicks. All I did was tell her off and send her on her way.”

Bella’s features were impassive. Then gradually a smile worked its way onto her lips, a perceptive smile that narrowed her eyes as she murmured, “She’s got you so mixed up, you’re dizzy. You really go for her.”

“Sure,” he snarled. “Like a fish goes for dry land. You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I?” Bella slowly arose from the table. She looked him up and down. She smiled and said, “This tickles me. It’s really very funny.”

He stiffened. “What’s funny?”

Her smile was pure disdain. “You,” she said. “You’re the comedian. And what takes the cake is that getup you’re wearing. Making a social call uptown?” She started to laugh at him.

“Stop it,” he said.

She went on laughing.

He stood rigid and his fists were clenched and he spoke through his teeth. “Goddamn you,” he said. “Stop it.”

He stood rigid and his fists were clenched and he spoke through his teeth. “Goddamn you,” he said. “Stop it.”

“I can’t.” She was holding her sides, as though her ribs were cracking. Her laughter climbed to a screaming pitch.

Kerrigan moved toward her, his eyes burning, his teeth grinding. But suddenly he stopped short, staring past Bella, seeing something that caused him to stiffen. His eyes were aiming at a small mirror on the wall and he saw his carefully combed hair and the Sunday suit.

The mocking laughter jabbed at him like hot needles inserted in his brain. But he heard it, the jeering sound wasn’t coming from Bella. He told himself it came from the mirror.

He turned away and hurried out of the kitchen. The laughter followed him down the hall, through the parlor, and went on jabbing at him as he opened the front door and walked out of the house.