Dog Soldiers (12 page)

“
I could give you a few hits,
”
he said. He looked at her as though she were a child.
“
How do you want to do it?
”

“
I don
’
t know. Just swallow it.
”

“
O.K., Marge,
”
he said kindly.

He had it in his pocket. He shook four tabs out of a plastic pillbox and into Marge
’
s palm.
“
Twenty bills. You pay me Friday.
”
He had overpriced it to put her in his debt.
“
Dowd liked this,
”
he said.
“
She liked it a lot.
”
His voice thickened as h
e spoke, his eyes shone. Marge
smiled her gratitude and watched him. It was a seduction. The shit would seal some chaste clammy intimacy; t
here would be
long loving talks while their noses ran and their light bulbs popped out silently in the skull
’
s darkness.

“
She liked girls too, didn
’
t she, Holy-o?
”

Holy-o smiled.

“
Yeah, she liked girls but what she really liked was dilaudid.
”

Loneliness. He wanted it to be like Dowd again.

She thanked him and he told her not to take them all at once and not to take the first one yet since she had to drive. Then he walked her through the back door as he always did and stood by until she was in her car. Every night he per formed the same gestures of vigilance — looking to the left and right, at the fire escape above the door and around the corner of the building.

When she was behind the wheel he scouted the alley for her and waved her on toward the street. As she came abreast of him he leaned down to the car window.

“
You
’
re gonna find this is good shit,
”
he assured her.
“
People really like it and they
’
re not just crazy. You see guys that are lazy bums and they turn into hustlers. They
’
re out on the street first thing in the morning
‘
cause they wan
’
it.
”

“
I
guess that
’
s the chance you take.
”

“
Yeah,
”
Holy-o said.
“
Absolutely.
”

“
With me,
”
Marge said,
“
it
’
s a matter of principle.
”

Holy-o hastened to agree that it was. He nodded as she drove away and it was as if there were no Indians in all of San Francisco. She had never seen him so happy.

She took Mission to the bridge approaches. Her car was a yellow 1964 Ford and Marge was very fond of it because of the way she thought it suited her. Marge on wheels knew herself to be a thoroughly respectable sight — she and the-car together projected an autumnal academic dash that might even evoke nostalgia if one had enjoyed 1964. Cops almost never stopped her.

Her house was directly up
hill from the first Berkeley exit, on the first block of rising ground. Not very far away was the corner where the Oakland Police had stopped the Vietnam Day March and Marge had been there although she had not lived in Berkeley then. It had been eight years since Vietnam Day.

She let herself into the building and climbed up two flights of fine redwood paneled stairway to the apartment. Before putting her key in the lock she rapped twice on the door.

“
Margie?
”

It was Mrs. Diaz, the baby-sitter.

“
Hi,
”
Marge said as she went in.
“
Everything O.K.?
”

She walked past Mrs. Diaz and straight into the room where Janey was sleeping.

“
Sure,
”
Mrs. Diaz said.
“
Your father called.
”
Janey was huddled in her yellow blanket. Her mouth was
open and her breathing thick and bronchial.

“
Damn,
”
Marge said. She found another blanket in the closet and placed it over the child.

“
Did he want anything special?
”

“
He asked you to call him tomorrow.
”

In the kitchen, she put a
pot of water on for instant cof
fee.

“
So,
”
Mrs. Diaz asked,
“
how
’
s life on Third Street?
”

“
Oh, you know,
”
Marge said.
“
Sordid.
”

The dilaudid tabs were in the pocket of her cardigan. She took one out and swallowed it.
“
You take your life in your hands down there.
”

“
It doesn
’
t bother me,
”
Marge said.
“
After working three years for UC I
’
d just as soon take my life in my hands.
”

She stood listening to the water beginning to boil and waiting for Mrs. Diaz to leave.

“
Would you stay and have a cup of coffee?
”

“
No,
”
Mrs. Diaz said,
“
I have to go.
”

As Mrs. Diaz put her cotton raincoat on, she
asked Marge
how her husband was doing in Vietnam. Marge said that it seemed as if he was O.K.
“
You ought to get together with my niece,
”
Mrs. Diaz said.
“
Her husband is over there too.
”

“
Really?
”
Marge asked.

“
Don
’
t you worry? If it was my husband I
’
d worry.
”

“
I do,
”
Marge said.
“
But he
’
s always been lucky.
”

Mrs. Diaz winced.

“
You shouldn
’
t say that. But I guess he
’
s getting a lot to write about, huh?
”

“
He ought to be.
”

“
You said he was writing a book about it?
”

“
Yeah, he wants to write about it. A book or a play or something. That
’
s why he went.
”

“
Boy, if that isn
’
t crazy,
”
Mrs. Diaz said.
“
I
’
m sorry but it
’
s so crazy when he could be here. There
’
s plenty here to write about.
”

“
He
’
s a funny guy,
”
Marge said.

When Mrs. Diaz was gone, Marge went back to Janey
’
s
room and listened to the child
’
s breathing for a while. Then she went back into the living room and sat in front of the television set without turning it on.

She lit a cigarette and dialed her father
’
s number in Atherton.

Her father
’
s friend Frances answered — Frances with the silicone tits.

“
Six oh nine nine,
”
Frances said.
“
And three a.m.
”

Marge had known that they would still be up, and she knew also that her father h
ad picked up on the other exten
sion.

“
Hello, Frances. Hello, Elmer.
”

“
Hi,
”
Frances said and hung up.

“
You
’
re all right?
”
Elmer Bender inquired.

Marge put another dilaudid capsule in her mouth and washed it down with coffee.
“
I just took a pill,
”
she told her father.

“
How nice for you.
”

She waited and in a moment he asked,
“
Are you suici
dal?
”

“
No, I
’
m just fu
cking around. I feel kind of de
ranged.
”

“
Come and see me tomorrow. I
’
d like to hear about New York.
”

“
Is that why you called me?
”

“
I wanted to know how you are. Why don
’
t you go see Lerner if you
’
re deranged?
”

“
Lerner,
”
Marge said,
“
is a senile Viennese asshole. And he
’
s a lech.
”

“
At least he
’
s clean,
”
Elmer Bender said.

“
I
’
ll come see you. If not tomorrow — soon.
”

“
Are you still getting intimidation from that guy in Santa Rosa?
”

“
No,
”
Marge said.
“
He went away.
”

“
What
’
s your situation?
”

“
How can I tell you? Your phone is tapped.
”

“
Of course,
”
Elmer said,
“
so what?
”

“
I
’
m off sex. Sex is just a room full of mooches jerking off in their pants.
”

Elmer Bender was silent for a moment. In the course of one of their conversations, Marge had discovered that he
had a horror of lesbianism and that he worried that she might begin sleeping with women. It seemed that her
mother had been known to.

“
Don
’
t you think it
’
s time John came back?
”

“
That
’
s gonna be strange,
”
Marge said.
“
Really strange.
”

“
I think the whole thing has gone on long enough. It was
nuts, you know? What good is coming from it?
”

Marge felt herself sinking into the chair she sat in. She felt as though she were sinking into its blue fabric in the most literal way. She held the phone to her ear with her left hand and stretched he
r right arm with the fingers ex
tended toward the bay window that overlooked the street. It was satisfying to hold her arm that way. The shape the window viewed from her chair began to suggest a Larger World.

“
How about a larger world?
”
she asked her father.

Elmer sighed.

“
Marge, go to sleep, my
baby. Be sure and see me tomor
row.
”

Some kind of wind had risen outside and was whistling through the rotten window casement and the ill-fitted panes. Marge sat facing the window, listening to the wind until it faded into a greater stillness. Her father
’
s voice was still with her and she felt as though some essence of him remained in the room — a dry, abrasive, maddeningly re
a
sonable essence. Points of light struck her eye as though reflected from his rimless spectacles.