The Night Remembers

22

On the other side of the door you could hear Barry Manilow complaining about how various people had done him wrong and he was getting tired of it. That was a modest joke between Faith and me, anyway — she says that Tony Bennett (who I like) always sounds drunk, and I say that Manilow (who she likes) is always complaining. About the only singer we like in common is Elvis Presley. When you had two teenagers, you learned to like Elvis. You didn’t have much choice.

When she opened my door, she put a shushing finger to her lips. “Hoyt’s asleep.”

I nodded and went in and noticed immediately how hard she’d been working all day. Everything had been dusted, set right, picked up, polished. The place looked great.

There was even a frilly white apron tied around her lovely hips. She’d once told me she considered aprons the ultimate symbol of a woman’s subjugation. She must have changed her mind.

She came up and kissed me gently on the lips and said, in a half-whisper, “Do you suppose we could make love? I mean, is this the right time to ask you?”

I smiled. “I guess we could find out.”

“Could I ask you something, though?”

“Sure.”

“Don’t touch my breasts. I think I’ll just leave this blouse on if you don’t mind.”

“Fine, hon. Fine.”

There are a lot of different reasons to make love and lust is generally the least of them. When I was in Italy in the final months of the war, I slept once a day with an Italian woman because I was convinced these would be my last hours and I needed to do something human and profound. I made love out of fear — fear that nothing made any sense and that I had to make some small connection between myself and another person before I faced oblivion. When Sharon was dying, I made love to comfort her. She was facing oblivion, too, and though her religious faith was greater than mine, I saw in the nooks and crannies of her final days the fear of extinction that comes to all animals, probably even those of the lower orders if we only knew how to understand them properly. When I met Faith, I made love to heal myself. The first time we went to bed I could scarcely get an erection. There had been too much loneliness and loss in my life for anything as positive as desire. But gradually it happened and soon enough I heard myself laughing as we tumbled into bed one night, and things were fine ever after. Faith had no idea what she’d given me; no idea. And now it was my turn to repay her.

In the gray dusk, the smell of roast beef cooking in red wine filling the apartment, we made slow gentle love on the couch, with the sound off and Bullwinkle making broad pantomime gestures to Rocket J. Squirrel, and Hoyt snoring sleep from his tiny pink mouth in the bedroom.

Several times my hand went instinctively to her breast, then at the last minute drew back.

Afterward there were none of the frail, insecure questions lovers usually ask to be reassured that they have given pleasure to their mates. We were way beyond ego; way beyond.

She lay on top of me, her head on my chest. When she spoke, she raised her small head a bit and spoke off to the side, as if addressing a ghostly presence.

“I’m sorry about not letting you touch my breasts.”

“I understand, Faith. Hell.”

Silence. Her head back down.

I said, “We’re going to be celebrating tomorrow. You’ll see. After the mammogram.”

Silence.

I stroked her fine, soft hair. When she started to cry, shaking there on my body like a sad little girl, I held her tight as I thought wise, and said nothing.

Late afternoon became full night, headlights playing off the north wall as cars sped out the avenue swishing through the wet snow, and you could hear in the silence a TV set in one apartment, laughter in another, an old man’s lonely curse in yet another.

“Why don’t we go lie down with Hoyt?” she said.

We stood up, dressed; I went into the bedroom while she headed for the bathroom. I lay next to Hoyt, giving him one finger to grasp while he slept. You could hear her peeing and then the toilet flushing and then the basin water running. She came in and lay on the other side of Hoyt, the bedsprings squeaking slightly. It was darker in this room. When headlights came they played against the window wet with snow, the melting liquid briefly the color of gold in the splash of lights. From the closet came the faint odor of mothballs; from the bureau the faint scent of Old Spice. Hoyt let out with a considerable fart. We were desperate for something to laugh about and this was it. She reached over Hoyt’s head and took my hand. She was asleep in a few minutes.

After we woke up, we went into the kitchen. She set dinner on the table.

“You want me to go with you?” I asked.

“I go back and forth.”

“I’d be happy to.”

“I thought you were working for the Pennyfeathers.”

“I am. But I’d take time off.”

“How’s it going?”

“I’m not sure.”

“You still think Pennyfeather killed that man?”

“Yes.”

“You think he killed the woman last night?”

“I’m not sure.”

She sighed, put her head down. She’d gone to the trouble of a candlelight dinner, and now she wasn’t eating.

“You going to get Marcia to babysit?”

“Ummm. If she can, anyway. Guess I’d better talk to her before she goes out to Rockwell tonight.” She paused. “Why would he kill her?”

“Pennyfeather?”

“Ummm.”

“I’m not sure. You really interested in it?”

“I don’t want to talk about — my situation anymore. I’m sick of it. That’s the trouble with being sick — it makes you the focus of everything, and you get tired of your ego long before you get tired of the illness. You know?”

“Yeah.”

“So what happens if Pennyfeather didn’t kill that man?”

“His name was Jankov and I’m not sure what happens if Pennyfeather turns up innocent.”

“It’s a possibility?”

“I suppose.”

“Do you have any other suspects?”

“Not really, though there are several people who seem to have some peculiar bearing on the case.”

“Such as?”

The phone rang. Immediately Hoyt began crying. She got up and went into the bedroom. I went into the kitchen to the wall phone. “Hello.”

“Is this Mr. Walsh?”

“Yes.”

“Hi. This is Dolores.”

The name and voice sounded familiar but I couldn’t quite place them.

“This morning. Out in front of Stella Czmek’s place.”

“Oh. Right. Dolores. How are you?”

“I’m fine. But I’m not sure Bainbridge is.”

“No?”

“No.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I was walkin’ to the store and I saw somebody go in there. Then when I was walkin’ back I heard somebody scream. I’m sure it was Bainbridge.”

“You’re at home now?”

“Yeah.”

“Can you see Bainbridge’s house from where you are?”

“No. But I can go out on the porch.”

“All right. You know what kind of car his visitor was driving?”

“Some kind of green car.”

I thought of Conroy, the private investigator. “Could it be a Chevrolet?”

“Could be. They kind of all look alike these days.”

“You’ll go check?”

“Be right back.”

Faith came carrying Hoyt. She brought him over and leaned him into me. He gave me a small warm wet kiss on my cheek.

Dolores came back. “Car’s gone. No lights on in Bainbridge’s. You comin’ over?”

“Thought I might, yes.”

“See you in a little bit, then.”

“Thanks, Dolores. Thanks very much.”

I had just turned to hang up the phone when Faith said, “I won’t mind.”

“You won’t?”

“No, I like to see you working. You seem more — complete, I guess.”

“I suppose you’re right. But—”

“I’ll be fine. Really.”

I leaned over to Hoyt and chucked him under the chin. “You take good care of her, you hear?”

He gave me a small solid punch on my forehead.

“I could be back late.”

“That’s all right. I’ll probably pick up a little and watch some movie on TV and doze off.”

“There’s a movie called The Gunfighter on cable.”

“A western?”

“Yeah. Oh, I forgot.”

“I’m sure they’re good. I just don’t appreciate them, I guess.”

“This one’s a little different.” Then I thought of how he dies in the end. “But I don’t think you’ll like it.” I went over and picked up the TV Guide. “You’re in luck.”

“What?”

“They’re showing one of those colorized deals of Casablanca tonight.”

“I love Casablanca.”

“That’s what I figured,” I said.

I kissed her, I kissed Hoyt, and I left.