B008J4PNHE EBOK (20 page)

 ■ ■ ■ 

From behind the glass concession case in the corner of the lobby, a hunched man in a VFW garrison cap informed her that it was a dollar for two cards and two dollars for five cards. Although there was no popcorn machine in evidence, the entire area smelled of butter and salt. Her stomach reacted with a gurgle. Marshmallows were the primary foodstuff in Tomorrowland.

Allie told the man behind the case that she was there to see Dr. Law.

VFW, without glancing from the book-size chunk of scrap wood he
was whittling on the counter, said there was to his knowledge no such physician on the premises.

“Booth Dolan, I mean.” Allie was in a hurry. The professor had gestured from his car for her to stay where she was; he wanted to talk. She was making fists, digging fingernails into palms; her own cowardice appalled her. The countless high school harassments boiled up: catcalls that she’d pretended not to hear, exams that she had studied hard for and let cow-eyed football players copy, the smirking biology teacher who had referred to her and the other two female students who dared to breach the sanctity of his lab as “the little mommies,” and so on. The memories were as vivid as bruises and hurt like bruises. She had loathed herself for running then, and she loathed herself for running now.

“Hello? Did you hear me? Booth?” She could have slapped the man in the VFW hat.

“Oh yeah,” VFW said. He set down his project—the words
KEEP OUT
had been neatly etched into the wood—as well his pocketknife, and made her wait while he carefully swept his filings off the counter and into a bin. “The guy.”

The lights were on in the theater, and the older people Allie had seen outside were seated in the rows, holding their markers and bingo cards at the ready. Booth and an assistant, a long-faced young man in gray flannel and brown boots, commanded the runway of stage in front of the screen, which had been closed off by heavy purple drapes. While Booth drew the numbered balls from a bunting-draped cauldron, his assistant recorded the calls on a chalkboard.

“B-nine!” Booth’s bass voice echoed in the small auditorium, ringing off the vaulted ceiling, and crashing against the back wall. Allie touched her hair, half expecting it to be blown back. She thought of going with her family to see Charlton Heston in
The Ten Commandments
.

“B-nine!” he repeated.

There was also a boyish quality to him, perhaps due to his clothes; Booth wore the same too-short, rumpled suit as that morning. Allie concocted an image of his mother, a normal-size woman in a tapered suit like Harriet Nelson wore, standing on the top step of a ladder to help her adult son get dressed, grunting and straining to yank the sleeves of the coat down on his upraised arms and get him inside it. In the dimness at the back of the theater, Allie couldn’t help smiling to herself at the sweet idea—before
reminding herself that there was no time for mooning. Professor Murton was in pursuit. She rushed along the right-hand aisle.

Booth’s partner drew a large
B-9
on the chalkboard.

“Nine?” asked a voice situated below a sunhat festooned with dusty cloth zinnias.

“Yes, Sarah,” said Booth. “ ‘B-nine’ is the new call. Have you been so blessed, my dear?”

Sarah hissed and shook her head sharply, causing a zinnia to plunge from her hat down into the darkness between the rows. “No.”

Booth spared a glance for the ceiling. (An angel with Mary Pickford’s face—eyes raccooned with kohl, one wing larger than the other—played a harp as she soared across the small golden dome at the center of the ceiling.)

Allie reached the stage. “Hey,” she whispered, waving him over.

He approached, beaming. “Allie, is it?” He had recovered his smile in an instant. “Tom, would you please take the bridge for a few moments while I speak to my friend?”

The long-faced young man said, “Okay, buddy,” and nodded to Allie. “Ma’am.”

Booth hooked her elbow with his and began to lead her up the aisle.

“Did he just call me ‘ma’am’?” asked Allie.

“Tom’s very courtly,” said Booth. “I think it’s terrific.”

Allie slipped free of his arm. “Stop. Is there another exit out of here? There’s a creep following me, and I need to—”

“Wait. You’re being followed?” asked Booth. His bulb of a chin, which was the only small thing about him, was furrowed in concern. “I’m not going to stand idly by and let you be hounded from pillar to post. Let me speak to this person. What is the problem?”

Allie blushed unhappily.

“Please,” he said. “You can tell me.”

For a few endless seconds, she sought to unearth the politest, least embarrassing way to explain Professor Murton’s idea for improving her playing—and then she gave up: “It’s my adviser. The creep? He wants to ‘gain’ me while I play piano. While I play Beethoven, he wants to.”

Booth was aghast. “Is that how he actually put it? He used the verb ‘gain’?”

She breathed out. “Yes. That was how he said it.”

He groaned. “I can see why you’re upset.” He gently touched her arm again. “Allow me the satisfaction of snuffing this tiny fart, will you?”

Uncertain, Allie did not immediately respond.

“How will I know this man?” asked Booth.

“He’s got a pipe?” Perhaps because she couldn’t figure out if he was serious, or if he was joking, or if he hadn’t tossed aside his magic cat and climbed right out of her old storybook, this statement of fact came out as a question.

“A pipe,” said Booth, and snorted, and went shoulder-first through the door to defend her honor.

 ■ ■ ■ 

She peered through the crack between the door and the frame to see Professor Murton standing near the concession stand. Besides being bald, the professor was somewhat walleyed, which endowed him with an expression of permanent incredulity. He was like some perverted mole-person. Allie used to love to play the piano. Now, whenever she played, she’d probably be half distracted, worrying about Professor Murton sneaking up from behind. A part of her hoped that Booth would walk up and punch him in the face. Yet from another angle, she viewed herself shrinking behind the doors and thought she was the one who deserved punching. Who had she thought she was, going off on her own, imagining a career of clapping auditoriums and grand pianos shimmering under stage lights, fooling herself and everyone else into believing that she was ready? Allie’s palms ached, and she was glad of the pain.

“Wait a minute.” Booth stepped across the red carpet with its motif of golden fans. “You there: ugly man. I want you to stop harassing the young woman you followed in here, immediately.”

“Pardon?” Professor Murton removed his pipe. “I just came in to speak to a friend of mine. Her name is Allie. She is a young woman, but I can assure you that I’m not harassing her. You’re mistaken.” He frowned and craned his neck as if having a hard time making Booth out. “Did you just call me ugly?”

“I did,” said Booth, “and now I’m calling you a menace. And now I’m calling you an asshole. Get out.”

“You can’t talk to me like that!” Professor Murton’s tone was one of such earnest grievance that Allie could barely believe this was the same man who only a few days before had suggested he “gain” her.

There was a creak as the man at the concession stand sat up on his stool. He was gray-haired, in his fifties at least, but of imposing mass; the sleeves of his polo shirt stretched tight around muscled biceps webbed with faded indigo tattoos.

“What’s this, then?” the older man asked.

“Nothing, Irving. Just ejecting an undesirable,” said Booth.

Allie, watching, had for the moment forgotten her own relationship to the situation. Booth’s display astounded her; she thought she might be witnessing an act of chivalry.

In the theater, down the rows behind her, Booth’s assistant, Tom, announced, “It’s A-four, folks. A-four.”

Booth clenched his fists and stepped toward Professor Murton.

The professor edged back and bumped against the counter. He blinked rapidly, underscoring his molelike aspect; it was as if he had just emerged from his hole and into the light.

“I don’t know what the problem is,” spoke up Irving. “But this is an official Republican Party event. Good people are playing bingo here.”

“Oh! Oh! It all makes sense now!” cried Professor Murton to Booth, his voice screechy and triumphant. “I should have guessed from your bullying that you were a Republican!”

“You bastard,” said Booth. “That was a hell of a nasty thing to say.”

There was a soft
pop
as Irving yanked his pocketknife loose from the chunk of wood where he had planted it upright. “Take it outside. Or I’ll take the both of you outside.”

“Now, Irving.” Booth had spotted the pocketknife. “Let’s not lose our heads. I can handle this—”

At that moment, Professor Murton feinted left, then darted right again. Nimbly for such a large man, Booth jumped in front of him, all at once eager, Allie saw, to maneuver the other man away from the counter. The professor, for his part, was unaware that Irving was armed.

“Move from my way!” Professor Murton jabbed his pipe, stem first, in the air between them.

“Never!” Booth heaved up his right fist and slapped his right bicep with his left hand.

Allie had no idea what this last meant, though she thought it translated to a violent—possibly sexual—threat, and it was very shocking. She realized that she should be looking for another way out, but there
was no way she could leave during such an exciting part. Allie squeezed her sore hands together and bounced on her heels.

“Are you mocking me or threatening me?” asked Professor Murton.

“Rest assured, you will know if I am mocking you,” said Booth.

“You want to know something? You’re a fat jerk! Enough of this! Where’s Allie?”

Booth ignored the slur. Instead, he said, “Let me tell you something,” and with no further warning, he began a discourse on Professor Murton’s unsightliness. He calmly explained that the port and starboard set of the professor’s eyes was highly aberrant among human beings. This feature was, conversely, “quite common among the minor prey of the animal kingdom, those low creatures of the swamp and jungle that must guard from attack on all sides.” Booth clasped his hands at the base of his spine and paced to the old-fashioned ticket chopper that stood in the center of the lobby. The gold-painted chopper was shaped like an obelisk and stood about waist-high. On the verge of his conclusion, Booth placed a hand on the pointed top.

It dawned on Allie that he was imitating a lawyer—a movie lawyer. Booth wasn’t putting his hand on a ticket chopper; he was putting it on the newel at the corner of the jury box and preparing to tell the assembled that this individual, the accused, was guilty of the capital charge of murder in the first degree. What a wonderful big ham was this Booth Dolan with his wrists sticking out of his suit! He was actually kind of fun.

“But the advantages of flanking eyeballs are limited to those primitive creatures who face threats from many, many predators. Human beings have evolved. Therefore, such a trait is, in a human male, an obvious backward step. You must understand: no woman could ever feel attracted to such a bizarre-looking person.

“Now,” Booth finished, “if you would be so good as to fuck off.”

“Criminy,” said Irving. Booth’s speech seemed to have deflated his anger. He retook his stool and laid down the pocketknife. A goofy grin was playing on Irving’s mouth.

Professor Murton repeated that Booth was fat. “You’ll just get fatter, too! You’re sucking in your fat gut right now!”

“I told you not call me names, you wretched man. Leave. Go. Depart. Ooze away on your belly back to your hovel. She doesn’t want to see you,” said Booth.

“Oh, shit on you, pal. You’ve got no right to come between me and my girlfriend.”

At that, Allie found that she had charged through the doors and into the lobby. “I am not your girlfriend!”

The men turned to stare at the woman in the army jacket. The doors flapped behind her in great whooshes. She pointed at the bald man. “You’re a pig, you know that? You’re my adviser. You’re supposed to be someone I can trust.”

Professor Murton licked his lips. “Allie. Let’s talk. I want to talk.”

“But she does not wish to talk to you,” said Booth.

“It’s all right.” Allie didn’t need to be protected or rescued; she never had. Her grandmother needn’t have feared: she was ready. “I can speak for myself.”

Booth nodded and retreated a half step, ceding the floor.

She pointed at the professor and said firmly, “Please leave me alone. I have nothing to say to you.”

“Allie.” Professor Murton’s cheeks were sweaty, his eyes watery. He held his pipe with both hands. “Oh, Allie.”

He was so sad and bald. His pretense, his confidence, they were totally gone; Booth had peeled him like a dead trout. Allie pitied him. Had she actually let this awful little man upset her?

“Look, I just want to talk, okay? Can’t you just hear me out and not be such a—such a cunt?”

Allie inhaled.

“Now you’ve done it,” observed Booth.

Professor Murton’s smile twitched. “I could have said that better.”

Allie turned to Irving, who was already on his feet again. “Hey, mister. Could you help us out?”

 ■ ■ ■ 

With the assistance of several able-bodied Ulster County Republicans, Irving O’Dell was pried off the professor and his knife wrested away before he managed to inflict any major injuries. The sheriff, a Republican and a bingo enthusiast himself, was on the scene to ensure that neither party filed charges.

However, this authority did administer a stern dose of morality to both men. He demanded that Professor Murton stop “trying to dick college girls,” or else there’d be hell to pay; and then he put it to Irving in no
uncertain terms that in Hasbrouck, NY, no one was allowed to disembowel a son of a bitch just because the son of a bitch was a son of a bitch.

(Softening somewhat, the sheriff added, “If we did things that way, Irving, why, I’d be a mass murderer myself.”)

Afterward, they walked to the Hasbrouck Diner, and Booth watched Allie devour a plate of turkey and mashed potatoes. “Marvelous,” he said. “I could watch you eat all day, Allie.”