Found in the Street (20 page)

The doorman George, the one Natalia knew, was upstairs in the hall instructing the stretcher man, who used a different elevator, so that when Jack and Natalia and Bob got down to the sidewalk, it was just in time to see the blanket-covered corpse being borne out of the service entrance toward the ambulance, and to Jack there was something awful about that, as if a corpse was not to be seen by the happy living, the people who walked in and out of the main entrance. Jack thought suddenly of all the little items he had just seen upstairs, a gold pen which he knew belonged to Louis, a book with a place-mark in it on the writing desk, a photograph of Louis on a yacht with hair on his head, in white ducks and striped French sailor's blouse, a picture of which Jack knew Louis had been proud. Natalia had squeezed her eyes shut and turned her head from the direction of the stretcher.

Jack got out of the taxi at West Eleventh, and said he would walk Amelia home, and he gave Natalia the keys, because she had not taken hers. When Jack got to Grove Street with Amelia at nearly 10, Natalia was cooking something in the kitchen. Bob was taking a shower, Natalia said. There was a shower and toilet off the spare room.

“Thank you, Natalia darling,” Bob said when he came in, in pajamas and a cotton dressing gown.

They had a light snack. Bob declined a drink.

“Thank God, tomorrow's a working day,” Bob said for the second time. His face still looked pale, his brown eyes lost and tense behind the round-rimmed glasses.

Jack got Amelia to bed, eased her into sleep by reminding her in a somnolent voice of the long, long day she had had, starting with a trip to the museum, long ago, that morning. Bob had retired. Natalia was tidying the kitchen.

“Bob told me Louis wanted no ceremony at all, just cremation,” Natalia said. “All written in his will. And Bob doesn't want us to tell people—just now. He'll see that there's a little item in the
Times.
”

Funny, Jack thought, though he said nothing. Awkward, too. The news of Louis' death would creep from friend to friend until everyone who cared knew it, he supposed.

“I think I'll try to see Elsie,” Natalia said.

“Now?” Jack asked, surprised.

“She's another world. I need to escape this.” Natalia went to the telephone. Someone answered at the other end.

Jack went into his workroom.

A couple of minutes later, Natalia said his name, and parted his slightly open curtains. “I'm off for an hour or so. Taking Elsie this.” She held up a big art book. “De Kooning. She wants to borrow it. She's crazy about de Kooning. Funny, no?” Natalia's smile showed a trace of good humor that Jack was glad to see.

He nodded. “Give her my love.”

26

The next day Monday turned out to be as odd in its way as Sunday had been.

Jack had awakened before 7, and found the bed empty but for him, and had at first thought Natalia must be in the bathroom, but her part of the bed had an unrumpled look.

Then he remembered that Bob Campbell was in the house. And Bob had to get off to work, unless he had awakened early and gone off already.

Jack got up, and found the apartment silent. Amelia must be still asleep. Jack had a strong urge to jump into his track suit and trot around Bedford and Hudson for twenty minutes, but what if Bob woke up and found the house quite empty, save for Amelia? Jack had to laugh as he brushed his teeth.

So he put on a dressing gown and made coffee, set the table for four, in case Amelia and Natalia came in, and sliced some bread for toast, though Bob looked like the type who was always on a diet and had nothing but black coffee for breakfast. It was a beautiful day, with a promise of strong sunshine beyond the windows.

And what was Natalia doing now? What had she been doing? Had she had too much to drink at Elsie's and Marion's, and spent the night there because of exhaustion? Had she stayed because she wanted to? Had she slept in the same bed with Elsie? And where was Marion in all this? Jack could understand that Natalia had wanted a change of atmosphere, that waking up in another house, even if she'd spent the night uncomfortably on a sofa, was preferable to waking up and facing Bob over the breakfast table at an early hour. But why hadn't she telephoned, even late, last night?

Bob Campbell walked in from the hall, looking showered and shaved and every inch the businessman, with his carryall in hand. “Good morning, Jack! Sleep well?”

“Yes, indeed! And you?”

“Pretty well, thanks. Natalia gave me a pill to sleep with, but I didn't even take it.—Can I do anything to help, Jack?”

Jack smiled. “Just sit down and tell me your breakfast order.”

“Coffee and one piece of toast. Juice if you have it.”

Jack poured coffee, then attended to the rest.

“Where's Natalia? Sleeping, I suppose. I shouldn't talk so loudly.”

“Y-y—Sleeping—Probably she is, but she's not here. She went over to see Elsie late last night, Elsie and her friend Marion, you know, down on Greene Street.”

“Really?” Bob sat, plump and alert on his chair and chuckled briefly, as if Louis weren't dead, as if it were any old morning.

“Yes,” said Jack, glancing at Bob. Jack was curious to see Bob's reaction, and he found himself playing it just right, with the faintest puzzlement in his “Yes” that might lead Bob to say more.

Bob was sipping black coffee, staring at the sugar bowl. “I imagine I depressed Natalia terribly. The whole thing—yesterday. Louis—Of course she had to get away from it.” He looked miserably at Jack as Jack sat down. “I want to thank you both again. I was a mess yesterday. Shattered. Natalia—She's the only person in the world I could've called on. So I did. Thank you both. And for putting me up.” He finished softly, as if he had recited a prayer.

“Oh, not to mention,” Jack replied. “Friends are friends.”

Bob munched his toast, dutifully, without appetite.

“Have you been down to Elsie's place?”

“Oh, yes. We were there—twice, I think. Louis and I.”

“Nice place?”

“Yes.” Bob smiled. He had a small gold rim on a tooth behind an eyetooth. “High ceiling, all white, low couches. Marion has a nice way with things. Not too many guitars, maybe six.” Bob attempted another chuckle. “Marion's good for Elsie, keeps her—Well, Elsie's like a kite going up, I feel sometimes, zooming anywhere. Marion sort of—”

Jack waited. Was Bob rambling on to avoid talking about Natalia and Elsie? Or talking to try to control his own grief? “Keeps her steady,” Jack said.

“Yes. Something like that.—Got to push off, Jack,” Bob said, standing up.

Jack got up too. “Bob, if you need us for anything—The Katz Gallery's closed today, so Natalia's here. In a while, she's here, I suppose,” he added with a smile. “I'm here anyway.”

Bob thanked him, and said that the crematorium, or wherever they took Louis, could reach him at his office. “I gave them all the necessary phone numbers last night. I'm supposed to go there at six today.” Now Bob looked suddenly down, and drawn. “Got to brace myself—look good for the office. I'm not saying anything to anybody. That's the way Louis would want it. Bye-bye, Jack.” He left the apartment.

Jack stood for a moment motionless, in the hall. Now he was out of the mood for his jog, now he would run into people hurrying for the subway or the bus. He put on blue jeans and a half­soiled shirt whose tails he left hanging out, tidied up the breakfast disorder to some extent, then Amelia came in, barefoot, in her pink nightie that nearly touched the ground. She looked like a cherub who had just quit a painting for a breather and a snack, in this case Shredded Wheat, her current favorite cereal. Jack served her a bowl of it, plus a glass of orange juice.

“They picking you up today?” Jack asked.

“Yep.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, Daddy.” Orange juice was all over her upper lip, and her tongue came out to lick it as she looked at him.

Maybe Natalia knew, but Jack wasn't sure. He called up the school. Yes, they were calling for Amelia, because they hadn't heard from the Sutherlands, and Miss Robles had just left, but she had two other children to call for first.

Jack had Amelia dressed in time for the doorbell, and he went downstairs with her. Amelia hadn't asked about Natalia, who was often asleep at this hour.

“Morning, Mrs. Farley,” Jack said. “Help you with that?” Jack held the house door wider.

“No. I'm fine, thank you, Mr. Sutherland.” Mrs. Farley was again struggling with her shopping trolley, which hadn't much in it, but was always a problem for her on the front steps and stairs.

“Hang on a sec and I'll take it up,” Jack said. “Morning, ma'am.” He greeted the presumable Miss Robles, a dark-haired girl new to him. She had two other small children with her, a boy and girl, yelling at each other now on the front steps.

“This is Amelia?” asked Miss Robles.

“None other. I can pick her up at four,” Jack said spontaneously. He could always call them if he couldn't. “Tell the school.”

“Okay.”

Jack had brought his keyring, and he opened the mailbox, grabbed two letters, then turned to assist Mrs. Farley who was now in the hallway. Jack took her trolley in both hands. “Here we go!” said Jack cheerfully.

At least he made Mrs. Farley's smile widen. “Thank you so much, Mr. Sutherland,” she said, a little out of breath as she reached her door. “That is most kind of you.”

Jack went up to his apartment. One envelope was stampless and bore the all-connected handwriting which he recognized as Linderman's, and which he dreaded. The other was from Trews whose initials T.E.W. were typed on the back of the envelope above the Dartmoor, Aegis logo. Jack opened Trews' letter first, because good or bad news, it would be logical and therefore not disturbing.

Dear Jack,

Just to state that sales are 30% better than predicted on HALF-UNDERSTOOD DREAMS, and it is on the Editor's Choice list, number 6, in the next issue of
Time.

Am dropping a note to Joel too.

Very best to you,

Trews

Trelawney E. Watson

P.S.
Are you thinking yet about a book on your own, maybe with theme but no prose?

No, Jack wasn't, but Trews had twice mentioned such a project. Jack faced the second letter and opened it. There were two pages with writing on both sides. Jack read it rapidly, feeling increasingly vexed as he went on.

The gist was that his “continuing association” with Elsie was causing or must be causing his wife considerable pain and sorrow. Ralph Linderman professed himself disappointed that a man he had believed cultured and a gentleman could so betray his status as to “dally” with a young and innocent girl, perverting her character for his personal pleasures. “Elsie and others,” was one phrase, and that meant Marion, Jack supposed, remembering the early morning—only yesterday morning—when Linderman had seen him and Elsie and Marion walking along Grove in quest of a taxi at Seventh. But Linderman devoted equal space to Natalia's “predicament” and also speculated on the effect of his behavior on his small daughter. He had seen his wife, he wrote, on the street, and tragedy and unhappiness were written all over her face.

Ah, Linderman! How little he knew! Little did he dream that Natalia and Elsie had spent last night—possibly—in each other's arms! In a way, the letter was funny, and in the old way sick­making, because Linderman was still on about his bedding Elsie. Jack had an impulse to burn the letter in the fireplace, but felt that this was old-fashioned and dramatic, and also he didn't want to see later the black ashes of it on top of the gray wood ashes now in the fireplace. So he tore the letter into little pieces, the envelope too, and dropped it all into the plastic garbage bag among wet orange peel halves, and gave the garbage bag a shake so the pieces would slide down.

Linderman had written that his conduct “merited being reported,” and Jack recalled a word well crossed out here, as if Linderman might have had the police in mind. Well, that was amusing too. Get Linderman and Elsie up before the police and Elsie would assert in no uncertain terms that she was gay and what the hell was Linderman dreaming up?

Linderman hadn't really threatened to do anything, Jack realized. But Jack sensed that his frustration was mounting, because he did not even know where Elsie lived now, or Jack at least hoped that he didn't.

Jack put on the radio in his workroom, turned it from pop to a classical station, and got some soothing string quartet music. He turned the volume low.

An hour or so later, the telephone rang, and it was Natalia. She was still at Elsie's, she said.

“Bob got off to work this morning?”

“Yes. He seemed to be bearing up pretty well.”

“Good.—I'll be home soon.”

Natalia arrived around noon, arms full of things she had bought at a deli, plus a bunch of daffodils. She arranged the flowers in a white vase. “Last night, I felt like collapsing, so I did.”

Jack was then unloading bags in the kitchen. “I can imagine.—Could you sleep comfortably?”

“Out like a light. I didn't want to come back here and see Bob, frankly—talk with him, you know?”

“I do know. I understand, darling.”

She straightened and looked at him, frowning a little. “Thanks, Jack.” She said it as if she meant it. “I'll fix some lunch for us.—Any interesting mail today?”

“N-no. Well, a nice note from Trews about ‘Dreams.' Show you.” Jack got it from the coffee table. “Easier if you read it.”

Natalia read it, and smiled. “Isn't that great? It is sort of a sleeper. Thirty per cent better! Not bad.”

During lunch, Natalia didn't mention Louis or Bob, rather to Jack's relief. She talked about Elsie's pleasure in being lent the de Kooning book, of her pointing out the painting she was fondest of in the book last night, one Elsie had known and had looked up in the book. Elsie had voluntarily promised not to take the de Kooning book out of the house. Natalia talked, somehow, as if she knew the Greene Street place well, and it crossed Jack's mind that Linderman might follow her there one day. So while they had coffee, Jack said:

“I may as well tell you, I had an unpleasant letter from Linderman this morning. I hate even bringing it up.”

“Lin—Oh, the old guy! What now?”

“The same thing. Except—” Jack had to laugh. “Now he seems to think I'm having an affair with Elsie, here in the apartment, and that it's making you very unhappy.”

“
What
!
”
Natalia smiled, mirth welled up to her eyes. “You don't mean it!”

“I do. I threw the letter away. Tore it up.”

“That's a pity.”

“Well—I found it funny and not funny. He doesn't know where Elsie lives now, you know, and I hope he doesn't find out. Be sure he doesn't follow you down to Greene Street sometime.”

Natalia seemed to take this seriously. “I'll watch out.—1 didn't tell you, when I came back from Louis' yesterday, he happened to be on Grove and Bleecker, wouldn't you know. High noon. He came up and said, ‘Oh, Mrs. Sutherland!' and would've engaged me in a yack, I'm sure, but I pushed the bell and you let me in.—The nerve of him putting things on paper like that! You shouldn't have torn it up, Jack dear.” Her voice kept its elegant control, but she slapped the edge of the table with her fingers.

“Why?” But at once Jack knew why.

“If we have to go to the police to get him off our backs, as Elsie would say—”

Jack was silent, thinking that he had made a mistake, though he could still put the letter together again. “Unfortunately, it probably isn't his last letter, so don't worry.—He saw me walking out with the girls yesterday morning. At 6 a.m., mind you.” Jack smiled wryly. “So he thinks I'm dallying with the two of them. Paying them too, he thinks, because he saw me giving Elsie a fiver for the taxi!” Now Jack laughed.

Natalia shook her head. “It's too much.”

“Why didn't you tell me you saw the old guy Sunday?”

She shrugged. “Because I don't like talking about him. I feel the same way Elsie does.”

Jack saw in Natalia's face the same anger he had seen in Elsie's, though Natalia's anger at the moment was quieter. “As long as he doesn't find out where Elsie lives. I don't think he's got a clue now, but he did say, ‘Is it south of the Village?' or something like that.”