Come Destroy Me (8 page)

He did not look immediately at the counter where he knew she was. He could sense she was there and someone was with her, talking to her, but for the first few moments Charlie walked by the bookshelves. He feigned a completely distracted interest in the neat volumes of the Modern Library.

Then a voice said, “Hi, Charlie,” and Charlie turned to see Jim Prince smiling at him. Sitting on the counter smiling at him. Miss Jill Latham was standing behind the counter.

Charlie said, “How do you do.” It sounded sophisticated, he decided.

“Swell. How’re you?”

“I am fine,” Charlie answered. He put his hand to his rear pocket, where the letter bulged. He still had it.

“Well,” Jill Latham said, “this is indeed an honor. My, yes. I do believe Mr. Charles Wright has never set foot in my humble establishment.” She giggled a little and Charlie wished she hadn’t.

He said, “I want a book.”

“How’s Evie?” Prince said suddenly. His face flushed. He hadn’t intended to blurt it out like that. He said, “How’s your sister?”

“Evie? Fine.”

Charlie was standing facing them and for a few seconds there was an awkward silence, then both Jill Latham and Charlie spoke at once.

Charlie said, “I haven’t seen you at the library lately, Miss Latham,” and Jill said, “I have seen your sister and she is a very comely young lady.”

They both laughed together at the way they had spoken at the same time and Charlie said, “Pardon me?”

“I said your sis-ter was comely.”

“Yes,” Charlie answered.

Jim Prince said, “She’s a swell girl.” He said, “Swell!”

“Indeed.” Jill Latham forced a smile.

Charlie tried again. “I haven’t noticed you at the library lately,” he said to her.

“Oh, my, no. I have been
terribly
busy. Terribly busy. I am going to do inventory soon.”

“Tell Evie I asked about her,” Jim said. He got off the counter and stretched his long arms over his head. “I ought to go.”

“Study, study,” she said.

Prince answered, “That’s the idea…. Don’t forget, Charlie.”

“What?”

“Give my love to Evie.”

“All right.”

Miss Jill Latham said, “She is indeed a lovely girl. Lovely.”

“I’ll be seeing you, Miss Latham.”

“Will you?” Jill Latham laughed and looked away from Jim Prince, over Charlie’s head and out toward the street. She said, “Yes. Yes,” in a slow, dreamy way.

“I’ll be running along,” Prince said.

Charlie told him good-by and Prince asked Charlie not to forget again. As he reached the door and was ready to close it behind him, Jill Latham called, “So long, Jim Prince.”

She said both his names together that way, and Charlie burned.

There was a stillness in the shop then, and Charlie fumbled with the change in his pockets, walked slowly along the rows of the bookshelves, and hummed to himself. He wished he had left too. Dropped the letter and left.

“How are
your
studies proceeding?” Miss Jill asked him.

“Fine.”

“You look tired. I hope you don’t
overwork.”

“Naw. No.”

“All work and no play …” She laughed again in that high, gasping giggle. Her black hair was pushed back from her ears and she was hugging her arms, still leaning against the wall behind the counter, watching Charlie out of her amber eyes. She wore a soft ice-blue dress, cut low at the neck, as all her dresses were, and under the sheerness of the dress her white lace slip and satin brassiere were clearly distinguishable. Charlie did not want to look at her. He couldn’t keep watching her eyes, and when his glance fell to her dress he goddamn, goddamn, goddamn.

“I once knew a boy who studied a lot. My, yes, an awful lot. Uh, he — he, uh, was a very
bright
boy. Bright! Most brilliant. This boy. But — he — wasn’t all work and no play. No, he wasn’t. He was not.”

“I’m not either,” Charlie said. “Sometimes I like to just sit and make interesting conversation. Listen to people. You know.”

Charlie picked a volume down from the shelf and looked at it without any interest. She never answered immediately. She pondered over her words, even after she answered, while she was saying them. He thought to himself that he ought to drop the damn letter, buy the damn book, and get out of the damn woman’s life.

You’re not even
in
her life, fella.

O.K., his conscience could shut up. He knew what he meant. He meant he just ought not to be bothered.

“Talk to people,” Jill Latham said finally. “Talk to people.” That was all she said, but for Charlie it was sufficient. He heard the note of despair in her tone and sensed what she was saying without saying it. That it was very hard. People were very hard to talk to.

Charlie said impulsively, “Sometimes I think there is no one,” and he blushed a little at his own sentimentality, expressed aloud in that room, compulsively, by himself.

“Do you feel that way too? Oh, do you feel that way too?” She stood up straight, moving from behind the counter and around to the front of it, pacing back and forth as she continued, her arms folded, her chin high in that dramatic pose, as though she were a famous movie actress. Gene Tierney … She said, “No one. It is very hard to have no one. Some people have their husbands and their children. You know, their
family.
Women usually marry and have their family. It is very strange. Some have — no one. I don’t know the ration-al explanation.”

“Some people are too deep for anyone to understand,” Charlie said.

“Yes.”

“Plain too deep. That’s all.”

“Deep are the roots,” Miss Jill Latham said, “deep are the roots.”

“So you’re going to take inventory,” Charlie said after a short silence. There were always pauses, intervals when no one said anything, and they made Charlie itch inside, get tense and squirmy. They were not such long quiet periods, but they seemed very long. They screamed with silence.

Miss Jill Latham was standing beside him now, her hands clasped in front of her, her narrow lips smiling slightly. She only nodded.

“The library’s practically empty these nights,” Charlie told her. “Practically deserted.”

“Yes, I am certainly going to take inventory.”

“How long will that last?”

“I am going to hire someone,” she said. “Someone to help. Some young lady who can help. Most of the young ladies are mar-ried, of course, and busy with their children.”

Charlie said, “Except for a few kids like Evie.”

“Who?”

“My sister, Evie.”

“Oh, yes. My, yes. Your sister.” Miss Latham paused and touched the books beside her with her fingers. “Yes,” she said, “you must not forget to relay that message. The one Mr. James Prince would like you to de-liver.”

“I’ve got a good memory,” Charlie answered.

“Your sister will undoubtedly be thrilled to hear from Mr. James Prince.”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh, my, yes. Undoubtedly.”

Charlie said, “Maybe.” That was a silly g.d. conversation. Aw, it was his own fault. His own fault. What could he say to a lady like Miss Jill? What could
he
say that would be in the remotest way enlightening?

Charlie boy, leave the letter and get out.

Give me time, Charlie thought. Just give me some time and don’t push me around.

“I came in to buy a copy of the Oxford Book of English Verse,” Charlie said.

“Oh, yes.”

“I’ll probably need it in Harvard.”

“Harvard,” she said. “Yes … probably.” She walked down to the end of the room and Charlie watched her go. Gee, she looked little and young and blithe. Blithe, she looked. Gee, she was pretty and — and —

Blithe! That’s what you meant, Charlie.

Well, not exactly. But what the hell! What kind of a stinky mind was he developing? Charlie felt again in his rear pocket for the letter. It was funny. It was funny now. He didn’t want to drop it. He wanted to go home and burn it and flush the burned parts down the toilet and forget that kid stunt as quick as he could. God, what a kid stunt! What a creepy kid stunt, anyway.

One thing he knew. He was plain off his stick. All of a sudden he knew it. Of all the silly fool’s tricks, writing letters to himself took the old proverbial cake.

Simpleton!

I know it, Charlie thought. I know I am. It’s better to know it, I suppose, but God, what do you do with it?

“I have a copy right here, yes.” Miss Latham said. She reached up and pulled down the gray-jacketed book and blew dust from the cover and said, “Whew, dust!” As she walked back toward him, Charlie caught himself staring at her legs, and when he looked up at her eyes, he saw that she saw. He blushed and felt his face get hot, and she said, “Yes,” in that offhand way that signified everything, nothing, was merely what she always said. Yes.

Charlie pulled his wallet out and handed her a ten-dollar bill, money that he had saved for two weeks. What the hell, he needed the book, didn’t he? Sure he did. He needed the Oxford Book of English Verse.

“I want to thank you,” he said as she handed him his change, “for inviting me in last week.”

“You are most welcome. You are indeed most welcome. A po-lite boy like yourself.”

“Thank you.”

“You are always most welcome.”

“Well, gee, thanks.”

“There are some young men I would not invite into my home.”

“I know. I mean, I imagine.”

“Many young men I would not.”

“Well, I’m awfully glad you invited me.”

“It was my honor.”

“Well, thanks.”

Charlie put the few dollars back in his wallet and jammed his wallet down next to the letter. If he ever wrote a letter to himself again, he hoped he croaked.

“Perhaps you would like to drop by one night this week,” Miss Jill Latham said, and Charlie felt warm blood rush up through him. He said, “I sure would. I would appreciate that.”

“If you are not too busy with your studies.”

“Oh, no, ma’am.”

“I wouldn’t like to take you from your studies.”

“Oh, no,” he said, “no. I like to talk to people. I don’t often have the chance to talk to intelligent people.”

“We can talk for a long time.” “I’d like that.”

“What evening is convenient for you?” she said. She reached up and fluffed her hair back and leaned against the books, not looking at him. Charlie wondered why he could not smell the lilacs.

“Gee, tomorrow?” Why hadn’t he said tonight? What made him think he’d live, waiting for tomorrow?

“Fine.”

Say tonight, fool.

“Tomorrow will be fine,” Jill Latham said again.

Lord, he could wait. He wasn’t completely off his rocker. He smiled and said, “Good,” and then he stood there, not knowing what to say. He said, “Swell.”

She walked over behind the counter, leaving him there, and Charlie put the book under his arm. He glanced over at her and she was standing there with her head bowed, as though she were completely unaware of his presence now. Golly, she was the most mysterious woman he had ever known.

He said, “Well, so long then.”

“Au revoir,”
she said, looking up at him. She tittered and then bit her lip. It was strange, her expression then. She looked bewildered and embarrassed. Charlie stared back at her for a moment and then walked to the door.

He turned and looked at her and she was looking at the opposite wall of books, rubbing her cheek slowly, thoughtfully. He called again, “So long,” and he did not wait for an answer.

The door shut behind him and the heat came at him in the streets. He walked fast and whistled and he was smiling. He was thinking, well, she is! She is the most mysterious woman I know.

That’s because you never knew any. Never!

Aw, for the love of Pete. Get off my back.

“L
OOK,” CHARLIE SAID
, “who said I was listening?”

He stood with his arms akimbo, his face flushed, his lips a hard line as Russel Lofton confronted him in the entranceway to the living room. Lofton was dressed immaculately in a cocoa-colored linen suit, a slim yellow cotton tie, white shirt, and brown and white shoes with natty brown striped socks. His hair was slicked back neatly, and as he looked at Charlie, his mouth smiled in that patronizingly courteous way.

He said, “We don’t mind if you listen, Chucker. Evie and I aren’t talking over anything secretly or anything like that. It just isn’t nice to linger outside in the hall as though you were spying.”

“Spying? Pfff — spying.” Charlie smirked and brushed his hair back from his forehead with his hand. He heard Evie say:

“Don’t pretend that’s not what you were doing either!”

Charlie could not see Evie. She was sitting inside the living room in the red stuffed chair behind the door. It was the second night in a row that Lofton had come for dinner, the second night in a row he and Evie had cooped themselves up in the living room talking while Charlie’s mother got dinner in the kitchen. It made Charlie sick to his stomach, for the love of Pete. He had nicknamed Lofton in his mind. Old Daddy Lofton. Phooey.

“I’ve got better things to do with my time,” Charlie said.

“I’m sure you have,” Lofton answered.

“I have!” Charlie was indignant and angry. Now Old Daddy Lofton was telling him what he could do and what he could not do in his own house.

“And any time you want to join in the conversation, you are most welcome to come in and pull up a chair.”

“Thanks,” Charlie said sullenly. He turned and walked back down toward his bedroom to wait for dinnertime. He didn’t give a damn what they talked about, and the only reason he had stopped to listen was because he heard Jill’s name mentioned. He heard Lofton read the advertisement that had appeared in the Gazette that afternoon, and he heard Evie say she would go in and see about it. Some kettle of fish, eh? Christmas!

Ah, he was going to read. Read and pay no attention to this crazy house and all the crazy people in it. Poor Mom getting dinner in the kitchen. But she
liked
to get dinner in the kitchen. Russel Lofton and Evie liked to talk in the living room while she was getting dinner in the kitchen. Everyone liked to do something and Charlie liked to read. That’s exactly what he was going to do. But Christopher, do you know what night it is? he thought. Crrrr-is-to-pher, he was going to see her tonight!