The Visitors, page 20
“Let me see one of those,” said Kathryn.
He took her to the back of the store, and produced what looked like a long, thin twig of red fiberglass. It was about five feet in length, and had a small reel attached. “This won’t catch any swordfish,” he said with forced joviality. “But it’s perfectly good for perch and pickerel.”
“What do you use for bait?” Kathryn asked.
“Artificial lures,” he replied, opening a drawer that bristled and glittered with prefabricated minnows, frogs, and worms. Gleaming glass eyes stared out of clusters of barbed hooks, and Kathryn had the feeling they were all looking at her.
“Give me two or three of those,” she said. “Whichever you think are best.”
The clerk selected three brightly colored plugs, and dropped them into a paper bag. “Do you want this gift-wrapped?” he asked.
“I guess so,” said Kathryn without enthusiasm, wondering how you gift-wrapped a fishing rod. The clerk disappeared, and returned a few minutes later with a long, thin box, which had been wrapped in orange-and-gold paper and tied with gold string.
“At least this will look festive,” he said, attempting a smile. “That will be eight-twenty in all.”
Kathryn paid him, aware that the wrapping was considerably more festive than the present, and as she was leaving the store she stopped and looked back. “By the way,” she said, “you said this was for pond fishing. Are there any ponds around here?”
The clerk thought for a moment. “Yes, of course,” he said. “There’s a fine pond, just the other side of Cranton. Anyone there can tell you where it is.”
“Thank you,” Kathryn said, and left.
She went next to a record store, and bought a five-dollar gift certificate that would enable Steve to make his own selection, and then, feeling worse with each purchase, she bought him a pair of plaid socks and a necktie. These are no good, she told herself; these are no good and I know it, but he can’t be without presents, and if I can’t get anything good I’ll simply have to settle for second-best. Then she remembered that the only thing he really wanted was an automobile, so she went to the five-and-ten, and for seventy-five cents bought a small toy car, symbolic of the real one. Happy birthday, she thought. Happy birthday, dear Stevie, and please forgive me.
The next morning, she had his presents at the table when he came down for breakfast. “I’m afraid these aren’t very much—” she began, and realized he was already talking, and hadn’t listened.
“Zeke said I could have the afternoon off,” he was saying. “So I figured I’d take the license test this afternoon, then pick up the car after that. A guy at Mother’s has a bag of bolts he’ll sell me cheap.”
“Can you take the test right away?” Kathryn asked. “Don’t you have to practice first?”
“Hell, I can drive. And now I’m sixteen, what’s to stop me?”
“I don’t know, but I wouldn’t get my hopes too high.”
“Well, we’ll see.” Steve’s eyes lit on the largest package, and he tore it open and took out the spindly fishing rod. “Well, hey,” he said. “What do you know about that? Thanks.”
“The man said it was good for pond fishing,” Kathryn said hesitantly. “He says there’s a pond over by Cranton that has a lot of fish in it.”
“Well, we’ll buzz over there and give it a whirl. What’s this?” He next unwrapped the package with the socks, and examined them critically. “Cool,” he said, and put them down.
“What would you like for breakfast?” Kathryn asked. “Would you like me to make some sausages?”
“No, thanks. Just a peanut-butter sandwich and a Coke.”
“I’ve got orange juice all squeezed.”
“O.K.” He opened the necktie, dropped it without comment, and turned to the gift certificate. “Say,” he said. “What’s this?”
“I thought you might like to buy some records,” she replied, putting the orange juice in front of him. “I didn’t want to pick them out for you.”
“Thanks. I may have to sell my machine, though.”
“Why?”
“To get up the money for the car. Pop said he’d try to work something out, but”—he shrugged—“you know how it goes.” He drained his orange juice and opened the toy car.
“That’s just a token,” Kathryn explained quickly. “That stands for the car you’re going to get.”
“Oh, I see. Sure.” He looked at his watch. “Hey, I’m late,” he said, rising.
“I’ll fix your sandwich in a second.”
“Never mind. I’ll have something later.” He started out the door, then stopped. “Thanks for the presents,” he said.
“You’re welcome,” said Kathryn.
He went out, and as he bicycled to work he reflected that this might be the last day he would ever have to ride a bike. From now on he would drive, like other people, and have a car in which he could really go places. For some reason, the idea didn’t cheer him the way it should; instead of being elated he felt progressively more depressed, and for a long time he couldn’t find the reason. Then he remembered the pitiful pile of presents, and he began to realize the cause. There was something different, though; if, last year, he’d received a set of presents like that, he’d have felt let-down and cheated, but now he didn’t feel anything as far as he himself was concerned. What he did feel, and it was only gradually that he realized this, was deep sorrow for his mother; he could see how hard she’d tried, and how aware she was that she’d failed. And, further and even worse, how rude he’d been. I’ll have to get her something, he thought. I’ll have to buy her something to show her I appreciate the fact she was trying. If only she hadn’t tried so hard, I wouldn’t feel so badly.
If he felt badly then, it was nothing to what he felt later that afternoon, when he went to the Motor Vehicle Inspector to apply for his license. He was told that all he could have was a learner’s permit, valid only if a licensed driver were in the car with him, and that it would be a full week before he could take the test for a regular license. In the meantime, he was given a book of rules and regulations to study for the written part of the test. He bicycled slowly home, black murder in his heart and all thoughts about a present for his mother forgotten.
When he got back, Powell was sitting gingerly in a chair in the living room, and Uncle George was sprawled on the couch, humming “There’ll Be a Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight.” Powell said “Happy birthday,” and Steve growled a reply and stamped through to his room. Kathryn was in the kitchen, and when he came past she said, “How’d it go?”
“I’ve got to wait a week,” he snarled, and slammed the door behind him. He dropped onto his bed and stared at the opposite wall, and then realized he was looking at the presents his mother had given him that morning. She had put them neatly on and beside his dresser, and they seemed to look back at him in mute accusation. Slowly his anger evaporated, and was replaced by the earlier sadness, and the backs of his eyes began to burn and he felt he was going to cry. The sadness fed on itself, and became worse as he pictured his mother tramping the streets of town, making tiny, ineffectual purchases in an obviously foredoomed attempt to give him a happy birthday. By now fairly wallowing in grief, he took the picture one step further, and imagined her being hit by a truck as she crossed the street with her arms full of packages, and he saw the blood in her hair and the crushed presents strewn about the street. This last was too much, and he got up and went into the kitchen, and threw his arms around her and buried his face in her neck.
“Hey,” said Kathryn in surprise. “What’s all this about?” He closed his eyes and shook his head, pressing her all the tighter, and with difficulty she turned around and took his face in her hands. “It can’t be all that bad,” she said gently. “You’ve waited sixteen years; another week isn’t going to make all that difference.”
He shook his head again, and croaked, “That isn’t it.”
“Then what is it?” she said. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
He paused, and realized he couldn’t possibly tell her what had set him off. He had compromised his manhood enough as it was, and to admit he’d been having fantasies like a little schoolgirl would be unbearable. He turned and reeled back into his room, closed the door, and fell onto the bed. My God, I wish I’d grow up, he thought. When you’re an adult you never have problems like this.
Kathryn looked at his closed door for several moments, then went into the living room. “Did Steve say anything to you as he came through?” she asked Powell.
“Nothing intelligible,” he replied. “He was in one of his black Irish moods.”
“That’s what I thought. But he’s weepy, too.”
“Probably been crossed in love.” Powell remembered the dispassionate way Steve had discussed the local girls, and decided this wasn’t the explanation, but it was all he could think of.
“If you ask me, he has a right to be sore,” said Uncle George from the couch. “If ever I’ve seen a crummy birthday party, this is it.”
“It isn’t supposed to be a party,” Kathryn snapped. “He didn’t want one.”
“Nevertheless. It’s about as much like a birthday as a hog killing.”
“If you can improve it, you’re at perfect liberty to try,” Kathryn replied, as her own eyes began to sting. “Anything would be better than what you’re doing now.”
Uncle George rose, slowly and unsteadily, from the couch. “Are there any complaints, my dear?” he asked.
“What was the story about your leaving?” said Kathryn, feeling her pent-up rage take control. “You were going to be out of here before nightfall, and that was some time last week.”
Uncle George looked into the bottom of his glass. “It took me longer than I expected to recover from my—uh—shock,” he said. “When you get to my age, that kind of thing can play hell with your system.”
“Well, it plays hell with my household. And my finances. You make a lot of noise about your money, but I haven’t seen a nickel of it when it comes time to do the marketing.”
“If that’s all that’s worrying you, I have a checkbook upstairs. I shall make out a blank check to your account.”
“That’s not all that’s worrying me. Everything’s worrying me—Stephen’s back is worrying me, and Stephen’s—his—”
“Ghosts,” put in Powell quietly.
“Yes, his ghosts, and everything that’s going on, and all the upset, and fear, and suspicion—” She remembered the reason for her trip to Cranton, and went on, “It’s got so I don’t know my own mind any more. I’m suspicious, and confused, and I do things I shouldn’t, and sometimes I think I’m going crazy. And to have you lying there, drinking rum punches and singing war songs and getting in the way, is exactly the last thing in the world I need!”
“There’s nothing the matter with war songs,” said Uncle George. “They stir up the blood, and raise the spirits.” In a high, reedy voice, he sang, “Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag and smile, smile, smile,” and moved slowly toward the bar. Kathryn whirled around and left the room. “Join me in a rum punch, Stephen?” he asked.
“No, thanks,” said Powell.
Uncle George made the drink, measuring out the ingredients as though inventing it for the first time, then shuffled back and sank onto the couch. “Women are strange creatures,” he said.
TWENTY
The next morning, Uncle George came down to breakfast early. He groped his way to the refrigerator and took out a can of beer, opened it, and took several long swallows. He looked at Steve, who had just finished his breakfast, and then at Kathryn, who hadn’t acknowledged his presence. “I’ve come to a conclusion,” he said. Kathryn said nothing, and he looked back at Steve. “And that is, I ought to contribute something.”
“Whatever made you think of that?” said Kathryn, spreading butter on her toast.
“It just came to me,” he replied. To Steve he said, “You’re planning to buy a car, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” said Steve. “I’ve got one all lined up.”
“Is it any good?”
“As good as I can get for the money.”
“Could you get a better one with more money?”
Steve looked at him. “Well, sure,” he said. “Why?”
“Then get a better one. I’ll put up the extra.”
Steve’s eyes lighted up, and Kathryn became confused. “I don’t think that’s necessary,” she said. “Stephen and I have said we’d make up—”
Uncle George put up a hand. “Say no more,” he said. “After breakfast we’ll go down and do some shopping.” He finished his beer, dropped the can in the wastebasket, and rubbed his hands together.
“I mean this,” Kathryn said. “There’s no need for you to—”
“I said, say no more,” said Uncle George. “I have spoken.”
Kathryn was quiet, realizing that after her outburst she couldn’t very well refuse. She was embarrassed by what she’d said but relieved she’d said it, because it at least cleared the air. If nothing else had been accomplished, everybody now knew where they stood. She took a sip of coffee, then said, “Can I make you some breakfast?”
“Beer is all the breakfast I need,” replied Uncle George. “Beer contains malt, yeast, and hops, to say nothing of the sugar in the alcohol. Any man who can’t get along on that needs a crutch. Come to think of it, I may have another.” He opened the refrigerator and peered inside. “Sonofabitch if we don’t seem to be out of it,” he said. “How could that happen?”
“There’s a liquor store on your way in town,” Kathryn replied. “You can get all you want while you’re there.”
“Very well,” said Uncle George with dignity. “I shall.”
As Steve drove, slowly and carefully, toward town, he looked at the gaunt figure of Uncle George beside him, and wondered what it felt like to be a millionaire. He certainly doesn’t look like one, he thought, and he doesn’t talk like one, either. If you saw him in a crowd, you’d think he was just another skinny old man. If I get to be a millionaire I think I’ll be like him, so’s not to have people pestering me all the time, like the Rockefellers. A millionaire’s life could be a tiring one, if you didn’t play your cards right. Out loud, he said, “This is very nice of you.”
Uncle George waved a limp hand in dismissal. “Nothing,” he said. “The least I could do.” He looked out the window and said, “What are you going to do when you grow up?”
“You mean for a living?” said Steve. “I don’t know. I got the Army to think of first.”
“Ah, yes, the Army.” He thought briefly, then said, “There was a time when a man could have his own private army, to do what he pleased with. There was the life for you—any time you wanted something, you just called out your army and took it. A woman, a town, a country—anything was yours, provided you had a good enough army. Those were the days.”
“Wasn’t that a long time ago?”
“Unfortunately, yes. Once gunpowder became popular, then everybody could have an army, and it was no fun. Nothing is fun, if everybody can have it. Remember that, my boy—the only fun is in having what other people don’t.”
“Like cholera?” said Steve.
Uncle George glanced at him sharply, then laughed. “Yes,” he said. “I suppose you could say so.” Then he looked at Steve again and said, “I think you’ll be all right.”
“Thank you,” Steve replied as he slowed the car. “This is the liquor store.”
“Ah, yes. I won’t be a minute.” He was gone several minutes, and reappeared followed by a clerk who staggered under the weight of two cases of beer and one of rum. “Just put ’em in back,” he directed, and climbed in front with Steve. “Now,” he said. “Where is the automobile emporium?”
“Well, the car I was going to get is over at Joe’s garage, but the regular secondhand dealer’s the other side of town.”
“Is there no place to buy a new car?”
Steve hesitated. “I don’t know,” he said. “I never thought about that.”
“There must be. Let’s find out.”
Steve was in agony. “If you don’t mind, sir, I think a new car would be—well, I’d rather not.”
“In God’s name, why?”
“Well, it’s just that this car’s kind of old, and it might look like—I don’t know—showing off, or something.”
Uncle George stared at him. “You mean you don’t want to drive a better car than your family,” he said.
“It’s—I just don’t want to look as though I was—was rubbing their noses in it, sort of.”
“Well, I’ll be a sonofabitch,” said Uncle George. “Now I’ve heard everything.”
“But thank you, anyway,” said Steve. “Don’t think I don’t appreciate it.”
“Sure, sure. O.K., let’s go to the used-car place.”
They found a 1958 Mercury convertible for what seemed like a satisfactory price, and Uncle George paid for it by check. Since Powell would have to sign the registration and transfer papers, the deal couldn’t be closed right away, but the car was marked “Sold” and Steve was considered the owner. He ran his hands over the hood and fenders with a touch usually used on newborn babies, and his eyes were soft and adoring.
“All right,” said Uncle George. “Now that’s over, you can take me to the station.”
“The station?” said Steve, coming out of his trance. “What for?”
“I’m going down to Boston. Some business I’ve got to take care of.”
“When will you be back?”
“That’ll depend. Tell your mother to expect me when you see me.”
“O.K.” They got into the family car, and as they drove to the station Steve said, “I don’t know how to thank you for this.”
