Disturbing the Peace (Vintage Classics) (27 page)

One man especially, plump and bald, sitting alone and pretending to read a trembling newspaper, had him under constant sympathetic surveillance. And there were others: two longhaired youths in T-shirts and jeans seemed to be discussing him in whispers, as if debating whether to come over to the table and speak to him, and a motherly woman with blue hair and a pink pants suit seemed ready to cry for his sake.

When the waitress brought his check she seemed reluctant to approach him, and her heavily made-up eyes said Are you all right, sir? He wanted to assure her that he was, or at least that he would be if everybody quit looking at him, but instead he kept his gaze fixed on his plate.

“Something the matter, sir?”

“No, no; I’m fine. Just not very hungry, is all.”

When she was gone he laid a big, crumpled paper napkin on the plate to conceal how little he had eaten, left too much silver on the table for a tip and glanced up again. There they were, all the quickly averted faces. He got up and made his escape, feeling many eyes on his back.

Outside, the afternoon sun was blinding. He moved through it as slowly as if it were a sandstorm, shielding his squinted eyes with one hand.

A grey, curly-haired man was waiting on his doorstep, and after blinking several times he recognized him as the man from whom he’d rented the apartment, the building manager.

“Are you all right, Mr. Wilder?” he asked.

“How do you mean?”

The building manager looked embarrassed. “I just mean, are you feeling well? The ladies next door thought you might not be feeling well.”

“Why’d they think that?”

“They said you were groaning and whatnot last night; said it sounded like you were in bad pain.”

“Oh.”

“And I mean I know you’re new here in town. We have this doctor looks after the tenants in all the apartments, Dr. Chadwick; I could call him for you if you’d—”

“No, that’s okay. I’m fine. Thanks anyway.”

And at last he was alone, safe in his own place with the door locked. A phone call had to be made, and after he’d fixed a drink to steady his hands he sat at the telephone table and dialed.

“Neuropsychiatric.”

“Dr. Rose, please.”

“Is this Mr. Wilder?”

“How’d you guess?”

“Just a moment, please.”

“Dr. Rose speaking.”

“Doctor, this is John Wilder. Listen: I think you’d better help me, if you can. The point is I just went out to eat and everybody was giving me these very funny looks, and then when I got back the building manager said – look. Could you come over here and give me a shot or something?”

“Mr. Wilder, these phone calls are becoming a little bizarre.”

“Whaddya mean? This is the first time I’ve—”

“You called me four times yesterday, three times at the office and once at home, and you called twice the day before. I’ve heard a great deal about ‘emergency kits’ and ‘shots’ and all sorts of disconnected talk, and I’ve given you the same advice each time: stop the alcohol. If you want to come and sign into the unit for a few days, that’s something we can discuss during your appointment tomorrow.”

“The ‘unit’? What the hell’s the ‘unit’?”

“The ward. I can arrange to have a bed for you, if that’s what you—”

“Oh
Jesus
, no, that’s not what I want.”

“Well, stop the alcohol, Mr. Wilder. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He sat breathing hard into the phone for a few seconds; then he said “All right, Rose – thanks for nothing,” and slammed the receiver into its cradle.

He must have slept a little after that, because when he looked up again the Venetian blinds glowed with the colors of sunset.

“… Operator, I want to make a person-to-person call to Dr. Myron T. Brink in New York City. I don’t have the number but it’s in Manhattan, on the East Side.”

“Dr. Brink’s office.”

“Long distance calling Dr. Myron T. Brink.”

“Who’s calling, operator?”

“It’s okay, operator, I’ll talk to that lady. Hello?”

“Is this Mr. Wilder?”

“Did I talk to you yesterday?”

“Yes, sir. Several times. I told you Dr. Brink will be out of the country until the second week in June.”

“You did? Well, look: did I ask to speak to one of the other doctors?”

“Sir, I told you Dr. Grady was handling Dr. Brink’s patients but you said you’d rather not talk to him.”

“I did? Well, scratch that, okay? Now we’re getting somewhere. Put him on.”

“Dr. Grady here,” said a voice with an Irish accent, and Wilder did his best to tell him what the trouble was. When he got to the part about the emergency kit the doctor made him stop, go and get the bottles and read their labels aloud. Then he said “You mean you’re drinking with
those
in your system? It’s a very bad idea, Mr. Wilder; all I can tell you is to cut out the alcohol at once. Beyond that there’s nothing I can do for you at this distance….”

The sky beyond the Venetian blinds was black when he made his next call – or at least the one that seemed like his next. “Person-to-person to Mr. Paul R. Borg in New York City, operator. I don’t have the number. I used to know it like the back of my hand, but I’ve forgotten a lot of things.”

“… John! Where are you?”

“Out in Los Angeles. Listen. Things aren’t so good out here, Paul. Not so good at all.”

“You finding it hard to crack the movie business?”

“I’m finding it all too easy. Trouble is the movie business is about to crack me. I’m a co-producer of a movie that’s going to crack me wide open.”

“I don’t follow you, John.”

“You don’t? That’s funny; everybody else is following me like a dog. Another thing: my girl’s gone. I can probably get her back if I want her, but she’s gone for now. Moved out on me. Listen: did I just say ‘if I want her’?”

“That’s what it sounded like.”

“I’ll be damned; I guess I did say that. Thought I was crazy about that girl – when she left me before I damn near died – but now I guess I really don’t know if I want her back or not. Funny. The trouble is she’s too damn ambitious for my blood. She’s on
the make. I don’t mean sexually on the make, though I guess she’s probably that too; I mean nothing’s going to stop her until she – until she’s the first female Samuel Goldwyn or something. Listen. I’ll tell you why I called, Paul. I wanted to ask you a question. How do you think it’d be if I called Janice?”

“Well, John, I think that would depend entirely on what you have to say. Also on the way you say it. If you’ve been drinking I don’t think it’d be a good idea. Why don’t you wait until you’ve had a good night’s rest, and then—”

“Are you kidding? Who the hell can ‘rest’ when their nerves are screaming? Listen. Remember the time you took me to Bellevue? Do I sound like that now?”

“You sound very agitated, John, and very – well, disturbed. Are you in touch with a doctor out there?”

“Oh, shit, yes. I’m in touch with more doctors than you can count. So you don’t think I ought to call Janice, right?”

“Not tonight, I’d say. If you’re asking my opinion.”

“Okay. You know something, Paul? You’re probably the best friend I have, but I’ve never liked you very much. Say hello to Natalie.”

And he hung up. There would be no more phone calls. “Pamela,” he said to his glass of whiskey, “I don’t like you very much either.” He got to his feet and threw the glass high against the far wall of the apartment with all his strength; there was a satisfying crash and the whiskey slid down the wall in a long wet stain. “Sorry, baby,” he said, picking up his last bottle of bourbon, which was nearly two-thirds full. “Sorry, baby, but it’s time. Down the drain.” Slowly at first, and then more quickly, he emptied the bottle into the bathroom sink. “Down the drain,” he said as the last of it gurgled away; “it’s all down the drain, Pamela sweetheart. I may have loved the hell out of you but I’ve never really
liked
you very much.” There was nothing
to do with the empty bottle but break it, which made another fine crash; then he started back toward the telephone table and the living-room floor hit him in the face. The crystal of his wristwatch was shattered; that was the last thing he saw.

When his eyes came open everything was white and green. He was naked and struggling in a hospital bed with three or four white-clad people bending over him, holding him down, trying to stick something into his arm. One of them was a young nurse whose left breast hovered close to his mouth. He bit it, and she said “Ow” in a restrained way, as though her nurse’s training came before everything; that struck him as so funny that he was still laughing when he passed out again.

Then all the struggling was over and he was alone except for an orderly who was adjusting the intravenous bottle over his head.

“Excuse me,” Wilder said. “Can you tell me where I am?”

“You’re in Hollywood Presbyterian, sir.”

“And is this a psychiatric ward or a medical ward?”

“Oh, it’s a medical ward, sir.”

“Good. Thank you.”

A medical ward. Maybe he had injured himself in the fall that broke his watch; or maybe he was being treated for simple exhaustion, with no need for psychiatric care. In any case it was a medical ward. Nobody was fooling with his brains here, and there was no lock on the door.

“… Mr. Wilder?”

The orderly was gone and Dr. Burton L. Rose was standing beside the bed, looking very small.

“How’d you know I was here?”

“Dr. Chadwick called me. Apparently he found my number beside your phone.”

“Dr. who?”

“The physician who brought you here. His name is Chad
wick. I understand he looks after the tenants in your apartment house.”

“Oh. Well, what do you want from me?”

“I think we ought to arrange a new appointment as soon as you’re – able to.”

“Okay; I’ll call you.” And he closed his eyes to get rid of the man.

When he came awake again he felt fine – fully restored to health and strength, as if he’d undergone some miraculous cure – and he wanted to be up and into his clothes and out of here.

“Excuse me,” he said to the orderly – a different one. “Am I still in Hollywood Presbyterian?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How long’ve I been here?”

“Since night before last, I believe.”

“And this is still a medical ward, right? Doesn’t that mean I can sign out whenever I want to?”

“I believe so, sir; but you’ve been very—”

“I know I’ve been sick, but the point is I’m well now. How about cranking up the bed.”

“Certainly.”

“And you might as well take that tube out of my arm; I don’t need that.”

“I’ll have to ask the nurse, sir; I can’t—”

“Okay, let’s get the nurse, then.”

Soon he was fully dressed and downstairs at the cashier’s office writing out a check, checking out of Hollywood Presbyterian as easily as if it were a hotel.

“Where can I get a cab?”

“We’ll call one for you, sir.”

“Thanks.” And in the taxicab he felt as if he owned Los Angeles; he felt as if he owned the world. For some reason he
had a lot of money in his wallet – well over two hundred dollars – and he felt like spending some.

“Stop at a florist’s,” he told the driver. “Any florist’s.”

He bought an expensive bouquet of mixed spring flowers, and on second thought he bought two. Then he had the driver take him home, where he pressed the bell on the building manager’s door.

“Well, Mr.
Wilder
; you’re looking much better. How’re you feeling?”

“Feeling fine, thanks, except that I’m sorry for all the trouble the other night.”

“Wasn’t any trouble. I figured you needed medical attention, that’s all, so I called Dr. Chadwick.”

“You did the right thing. Here, I brought these for your wife.”

“Oh, nice. Well, that’s very – thoughtful, Mr. Wilder. Would you like to step inside for a few minutes?”

“No thanks; some other time. Do you know if the ladies are home? The ladies next door to me? I want to apologize to them too.”

“Oh; very nice. I think they’re home, yes; why don’t you just ring their bell?”

He had expected old ladies; instead the older was only about fifty, a pleasant, crafty-looking woman with a henna rinse, and the other, apparently her daughter, was a pretty blonde in her twenties. Maybe they had come to Hollywood to try and get the daughter into the movies.

“Excuse me,” he said. “I’m John Wilder; I live next door here. I just wanted to say I’m sorry about all the noise and the trouble – here, I’ve brought you these.”

The older woman’s eyes looked him carefully up and down before she broke into a pleased smile. “Well, that’s very nice. Joy? Come and look. Aren’t they lovely?”

At last he was alone in his own place, rich with a sense of having paid his debts. There was some broken glass to be cleaned up and a few tumbled chairs to be righted, and something would have to be done later about the tan whiskey stain on the wall, but generally things were in order. He couldn’t remember having felt so well in years. Pouring that bottle down the drain was the smartest thing he had ever done.

But it was much too fine a morning, or afternoon, to stay indoors; very soon he was outside in his shirtsleeves, strolling up Santa Monica Boulevard, wanting to smile and wave at every passerby. He came to an especially sunny patch of sidewalk and stood slowly turning in place for a long time, holding his face up to the health-giving sun. Then he came to an Orange Julius stand and bought a paper cupful of the stuff. It tasted sweet and cheap, but the orange flavor reminded him of all the good, nourishing things he’d missed in all these years of alcohol. He stopped at a small neighborhood super market – really just a grocery store; not at all the kind of place Pamela had taken him to – and decided to buy whatever looked appealing. When he came out he was carrying a bag of twelve fragrant peaches in one arm and twelve small bottles of club soda in the other: just exactly the right combination of food and drink to get him through the day.

Back in the apartment he took a ravenous bite out of a peach; he broke out the ice and made himself a plain club-soda highball. “Down the drain,” he said, sitting back in an easy chair with his shoes off. “I’m sorry, Pamela, but everything between you and me is down the drain.”