Heat of Night (11 page)

N
OBODY SPOKE
. None of them moved. The wind hurtled in past Al in the open doorway. Finally he closed it, leaned against the door, staring at Dolores.

At last Bea was able to speak. She stared at AI, her eyes bright with tears. “She tried to kill herself, Al. She drank poison.”

At the sound of Bea’s voice, Al was able to move. He strode forward, shoved the children out of the way.

Dolores’ swollen mouth moved. She said, “Mal.”

Al swung her up in his arms, cursing. He cursed Mal Hollister, he cursed himself because he hadn’t killed him.

He moved through Dolores’ bedroom door with her in his arms. Gently he placed her on the bed.

Bea was at his heels. “It was my fault, Al.”

Al was staring at Dolores’ blistered mouth, trying to think what to do — take Dolores to a doctor, bring one here. His mind was numb, he was helpless.

“Your fault? Your fault? What kind of fool talk is this?”

“I should have stayed with her. But I thought she wanted to be alone. She was so miserable … I thought she would sleep. I should have stayed with her.”

“Forget it. It’s not your fault.”

“I should have stayed with her.”

“Nobody would have thought she would do a thing like this,” Al said. “Nobody.”

He stared at Bea, needing her strength. Suddenly he saw that in their marriage it was Bea who made the decisions, who had the will. But now when he needed her, she stood numbed with shock and horror, unable to think.

“What are we going to do, Bea?”

She stared at Dolores; she shook her head.

“We got to do something for her. Bea, what are we going to do?”

“Mal.” Dolores whispered it again.

Al felt his rage rise at the sound of that name. He spun around, facing Linda who was in the doorway.

“Where’s Mama? Where’s Papa?”

“I don’t know.” Linda was crying, clinging to the gold cross at the end of the chain about her neck.

“They left when you did,” Bea told him. “Al, we must get a doctor. You go for a doctor.”

Al nodded. This was what he needed. Bea must think, tell him what to do. Dolores was dying and he was helpless with the horror of it, but if Bea could keep him moving, he could do anything. He nodded again, spoke to Dolores. “I’ll get a doctor.”

She did not even hear him. She whispered Mal’s name again. Al yelled at her. “Goddamn Mal. Goddamn him, you hear me?”

Bea said, “You think that helps any, Al? Get her a doctor.”

He nodded, contrite and ashamed of himself. He pushed past Linda. He said, “Where’s Luis? Where’s the kid? Wasn’t he here a minute ago?”

Linda shook her head. She did not know. Now Bea said, “Hurry, Al.”

He nodded again. He moved toward the front door.

It was thrust open and Juan and Rosa came in. Linda cried out and ran to Rosa. Linda threw herself in Rosa’s arms, clinging to her. She sobbed, unable to speak.

Juan stared toward Bea in Dolores’ doorway.

His face went ashen. He recognized trouble so quickly now. Some terrible thing had happened here. He was afraid to ask what it was.

Al moved his gaze from Juan’s face to Rosa’s. He shook his head, knowing he was unable to tell them what had happened. He did not want to be in this house when Rosa heard that one of her children had attempted to take her own life.

He said, “I’m going to get a doctor. Right now.”

No one heard him but he wasn’t speaking to anyone in particular anyway.

Juan managed to speak. “Bea, what happened?”

Al was trying to get past them to go out the front door.

Bea said, “Dolores drank something. It was poison. I’m afraid — ”

Rosa moaned aloud. She moved forward, half-dragging Linda with her.

Al got to the door. “I’m going for a doctor,” he said again.

Juan stumbled across the room. He felt as though he were being beaten about the head. Juan stood beside Dolores’ bed, looked down at her. He cried out, a sound that dwarfed the thunder. He stood there shaking his head.

Rosa turned suddenly, ran to the front door, threw it open. Outside she heard Al grinding the wet motor, trying to start it.

She screamed his name. When he finally answered, she shouted across the porch to him. “Alberto! The priest! When you go to the doctor, also you get the priest to come! You hear me, Alberto?”

He shouted something at her and she closed the door She leaned against it and did not move. She did not do anything because such a thing as this had never happened in her life before and she was powerless. She did not even know what to do.

Juan came from the bedroom, walking like a man in a trance. Linda was huddled on the couch. Lightning flared at the window. The windows shook in their frames, the sashes rattled, bouncing in the thunder and the house trembled on its foundation.

Juan said, to no one, “The bay is almost to the house. The first time I have ever seen it so high.”

“My baby,” Rosa whispered. She was praying with her lips barely moving, eyes upturned.

Bea said from the bedroom doorway, “There ought to be something we could do.”

Dolores cried out in agony. The sound was sharp and hurting. Bea stared at Juan and Rosa, then went to the bed. Her face was contorted because she was helpless and she did not want to stay in here helplessly, but she must stay here with Dolores, unable to help her at all. She waited, but the others did not come to her.

Juan said, “Linda. Go to bed.”

The child wanted to protest but at the look on Juan’s face, she changed her mind. She nodded and got up. She padded into her room. After a moment she darted back into the parlor.

She said, “Luis is not in his bed.”

Juan hardly heard her, did not understand her. “Get in bed.”

“Luis is not in bed.”

They heard her this time. They both ran into the children’s big room. After a moment they returned to the parlor. Juan stood in the center of the room and roared Luis’ name.

The pound of rain, the scream of wind was the only answer.

Rosa sagged on the couch, shoulders slumped, arms clasped between her knees.

She looked up. “Papa. What terrible thing is this that has happened to us, Papa?”

Juan licked his lips. He glanced toward Dolores’ room, toward the room where Luis’ bed was empty.

“Why has God turned from us?” she cried.

He shook his head.

“What is God’s will?” Rosa cried. “If I know His will, I do it. He must know this. Why He turn against us like this?”

“Is not God, Mama,” Juan said. “Is me.”

“Is you, Papa? What are you talking about?”

“It’s all my fault, Mama. All this. All my fault.”

She shivered, seized with cold.

“No. Oh, no.”

“But it is,” Juan said. “I must tell you Mama. You got to understand. It is what I have brought upon us, with my sin.”

“You sin, Papa?”

He nodded. “It was — ” he winced. “It was the whore down at Jake’s Bar.”

She went tense, squeezing her eyes shut, not wanting to hear him, wishing she never had to hear him.

Juan went on, voice relentless and dead. “I was drinking, Mama, and I was all mix up — all mix up about — our girl in there and that divorce man. I was all mix up. Worried. Mama. You understand, Mama? All mixed up. Drinking. Worry. Hardly know what I was doing.”

They watched Bea move from the bedroom across to the kitchen. For that instant they were silent.

“I’m not saying I wasn’t wrong, Mama. Or that I didn’t sin. I sinned. Now I pay for my sin with hurt to my child. In my heart I did what was wrong. She — pull off this dress and showed bare — and they were young and full and I tried but I could not stop my hand from touching at them, and the way she showed it all to me and it was lovely and I was all mix up. So mix up. Mother of God. Mother of God.”

He sank beside the couch on his knees. Rosa touched his head, soothing it. “Is all right. Is all right.”

They saw Bea hurrying back into the bedroom carrying something in a glass but they were too numbed to know what she was doing.

Juan held to Rosa. “No. Is not all right. About my head I bring all this ruin. To break your heart. I only touched her and I ran away. But God knows…. In my heart … God is punishing me … this … all this … God’s punishment.”

• • •

The front door was pushed open and Al came through it, water dripping from him.

Rosa looked up, searching for the miracle. She did not find it. Al was alone.

He closed the door behind him.

“The doctor?” Rosa said. “Where is he, Al?”

Al cursed and then, clenching his fists at his side, he forced himself to smile. “I saw him. He said — he would come — if the rain lets up.”

“She’ll die!”

Al cursed again. “I did all I could, Mama. I couldn’t drag him out. He asked what she drank. What kind of poison? I didn’t know. I could not tell him. He said we should give her something to make her throw it up.” Al cursed again. “He said he would come. If the rain lets up.”

Juan whispered, “Oh, God, if the sin is mine, let me be punished. You hear? I can take. But not the child. The sin is mine. Damn, oh damn, then strike me dead, but let her live.”

Al stared about helplessly. “He said he would come — if the rain let up.”

He was silent and they listened to the rain battering the roof, slashing against the house, the sound like bitter cosmic laughter.

Rosa licked her mouth, staring at Al, afraid to ask. “The priest, Al? You saw the priest?”

“I saw him.”

“What did he say, Al? When is he coming?”

Al cursed. “In this storm? He will come. When the rain lets up enough to get through. He said to promise you this.”

Rosa sank to the couch. She did not move or speak. They heard Dolores cry out from the bedroom. They heard the name and they all cringed against it.

“Mal,” Dolores cried. “Mal.”

M
AL WAS PACKING
in his bedroom. Through the sounds of the storm and the walls he could hear Stella’s lawyer declaiming wildly and drunkenly to himself in the guest room. Well, he was pleased if Norcross was happy, even if it took a fifth of Scotch to accomplish it.

He threw a shirt in the suitcase on his bed. Tomorrow he’d put this place up for sale. He’d clear out. He was too tired to fight any more; it was all a fight, the politicians and the crooks all day, the Venzinos, the lawyers and the ex-wives. The hell with it, he was tired. He couldn’t promise he’d forget Dolores Venzino just because he’d gotten the word. It wasn’t something you could turn off when you got orders. Best he could do was make the effort — for the sake of his own sanity.

He heard the doorbell and at first he decided it was the bells he heard in weariness. Then he decided the hell with it, he was too tired to answer it. Wasn’t it undoubtedly Big Juan Venzino? Big Juan he could do without. He could do without the whole damned family. He wanted to marry their daughter and they’d rather kill him than allow it. It would be comic if it weren’t so damned senselessly sad.

The doorbell rang again.

All right, damn you, Big Juan, I’ll answer you, and I’ll tell you what I think of you, you ignorant, benighted, superstitious, narrow-minded, bigoted old devil.

He strode out of his bedroom and went down the steps, listening to the lawyer in the guest room. His anger mounted through the weariness in him as he crossed the foyer. He snapped on the porch light, threw open the door.

He stared. At first there was nothing, then his gaze was pulled down to the child, barely tall enough on tiptoe to reach the doorbell.

“Luis,” Mal whispered. “My God, child. Is that you, or is that a drowned rat?”

Luis’ teeth were chattering. Mal caught him up in his arms, brought him inside, kicking the door closed behind him. He carried him to a downstairs bathroom, rubbed him dry with a towel. He found an old robe and wrapped the child in it. Luis was still shivering.

“What are you doing here? Don’t tell me you’ve thought of another funny joke to tell me?”

Luis stared at him, brown eyes wide. “Is Dolores.”

“What is Dolores? What’s the matter with Dolores?”

“She is sick. Very sick. Something. She drank something. Her mouth. All a blister.”

“Jesus. Poison! Why did she do that?”

Luis shook his head. “I don’t know. I think it is you she need. She call for you. Over and over. I run out. I come to get you. I think she need you.”

“Poison.” Carrying the child, Mal strode toward the front door. “All right. Come on. We’ll go down there. Maybe we better get a doctor first. Huh?”

Luis was quiet. He was turning the whole matter over to Mal Hollister now. Mal ran through the rain to his car.

Luis said, “You handle?”

“Okay.”

Luis sighed and snuggled against the seat. He said, “Some car. This some fine car, all right.”

Mal pushed the heater knob. They moved out of the yard and he felt the car warming up.

Mal glanced at the boy, spoke with a soft laugh. “Think of it, Luis. How smart you are. How dumb a man like me can get. Here I was, tired out, ready to quit. You know? Things were tough. I was pretty low. Thought I didn’t have a chance — and then, here you come, in the rain, to invite me back in the human race.”

“I’m sleepy,” Luis said.

Mal nodded. They did not speak again all the way to the doctor’s house.

• • •

The doctor shook his head. “I’m sorry. Not in this storm. We’d never make it. I’ve already explained this to Venzino.”

“Yes. Well, I’m not Venzino.”

The doctor jerked his head up, staring at Mal. “I’m not going out in this storm.”

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t argue about it.” Mal’s calm voice was hard. “It will save both of us a lot.”

“What could I do?”

“That’s up to you. There better be something. I already hate to think that Venzino has been here looking for you and that you’ve wasted this much time — ”

“This storm.”

Mal shrugged his shirt up on his shoulders. “I am now out of patience. I’ll give you just two minutes, doctor, to get your bag — ”

“Couldn’t you bring her here?” Then the doctor paused, reading something in Mal’s face. “All right. All right. I’ll get ready. Just a minute.”

• • •

Al opened the door when he heard them cross the porch. He took Luis from Mal’s arms. He did not at once see the doctor.

“Thought maybe it was the doctor,” Al said. “I thought I told you to stay away from here. You forget quick.”

Mal said, “Where is Dolores?”

“Get out of here. We got all the trouble we can stand. We don’t need you.”

“He brought the doctor,” Luis said.

Al flushed, seeing the doctor. He stepped back out of the doorway. The doctor entered the house ahead of them, shook out of his slicker. He looked questioningly at Al who nodded toward Dolores’ bedroom. Carrying his medical kit, the doctor crossed the parlor. The children stared at him from the doorway of their bedroom.

Al set Luis on his feet. “Get to bed. You pray that your mama and papa are too busy to notice you tonight.”

“I had to go get him.” Luis pointed at Mal.

Mal nodded. “That’s right. I was invited here. By the only member of this family with good sense.” He moved toward Dolores’ room.

“Albert — ” Bea came out of Dolores’ room. “Who is it? Oh, Mr. Hollister. Come in. Dolores has been calling for you — over and over.”

“I told him,” Luis said from his doorway.

“I came as quickly as I could,” Mal said.

“He’s just leaving.” Alberto’s voice was savage. “He got her in this mess. Now let him get out of here.”

“Please forgive my husband, Mr. Hollister,” Bea said. “He’s upset — we all are here tonight.”

“My sister is dying.” Alberto’s voice broke. He stared at Mal as though seeing him through a red mist. “You still here?”

“I told you. I came to see Dolores. I’ll be here until I see her. Take another poke at me if it pleases you — but I better tell you, I’m not going to stand here and take it this time.”

Bea spoke quickly. “Of course you want to see Dolores.” She moved between him and Al. “Come in here, Mr. Hollister.”

Al sucked in his breath but did not speak. Mal followed Bea through the bedroom door, feeling the thunder shake the house on its foundations.

Mal stopped at the foot of the bed. He stared at Dolores, feeling sick. Who could have made her do such a thing to herself, a simple little girl with her simple belief in goodness. He clenched his fists. The poison had scorched her mouth. The doctor’s face was grave as he gave her an injection.

Her parents knelt beside the bed, praying. They did not look up when Bea and Mal entered the room. The doctor ordered immediate emetics made up of mustard, egg-whites, soap, hot coffee. Bea nodded, hurried out to the kitchen.

Al stood in the center of the front room. His face was ashen, eyes fixed on nothing. Bea said, “Go in your room, Al. Lie down. I’ll call you.”

He nodded, without the will any longer even to think for himself. He moved into his room, closed the door and fell across the bed.

Bea worked swiftly in the kitchen. Mal appeared. “Is there anything I can do to help you?”

She gave him the emetics she’d prepared, told him to carry them to the doctor while she made black coffee.

“She’s not going to die,” Mal said. He seemed to be speaking to himself.

Bea didn’t answer.

Bea sat in the front room on the couch. She could never remember having been so tired. She heard something move on the front porch. She was sure it was her imagination; she was overwrought, jumpy. Perhaps one of the dogs had run around there in the rain.

She heard it again. Frowning, she got up, crossed the room and opened the door.

“Ric.”

She stared, hardly recognizing him slouching there, completely soaked, clothing hanging sodden on him.

“Ric. Come in.”

“No.” He shook his head, leaned against the porch wall. He looked old, defeated. Bea turned on the porch light, stepped through the door, closed it after her.

“Ric. What’s the matter with you? Are you ill?”

He shook his head, staring at her. His hair lay dripping and lank down the sides of his head. His shirt clung to his muscled chest, showing the dark skin, thick dark chest hairs. But he no longer looked handsome. He looked evil, unwholesome.

“Are you drunk?”

“I’m sober now. I was never more sober.”

“What’s the matter with you?”

“I got to see Doll.”

She shook her head. “She’s ill, Ric. Very ill.”

“I know that. My God, I know that. I got to see her.”

“How do you know she’s ill?”

He shook his head, unable to meet her gaze. His whole body shuddered. “It don’t matter. I know. You got to let me see her.”

“She can’t see you, Ric. She’s — dying.”

A tortured sound was pressed from Ric’s throat. He staggered about on the porch as if he wanted to run away but didn’t know where to go any more. He bumped a chair, knocked it over. His canvas shoes dripped when he took a step.

He moved back to the front door, leaned against the wall beside it. He rested his forehead against the boards, rolling his head back and forth, whispering her name.

Finally he could not stand it any more and began to cry, whimpering, striking the wall with the side of his fist. Bea stared at him in horror. He sank to the floor, pressed against the wall, desolate, and he cried inconsolably.

She was frightened and wanted to call out for help but she could think only of Mal Hollister who might be of any assistance. She was sorry for Ric, even this pitiable hulk of what he had been. He wouldn’t want anyone to see him like this.

“Ric, don’t,” she said. “It’s not your fault.”

He turned up his head, his voice was odd, empty. “It’s my fault. If she dies, I killed her.”

His body shook again and his face was twisted, becoming hideous with agony. “I got to make it up to her,” he sobbed. “I want you to tell her. I was crazy. I was. She begged me not to. I wouldn’t listen.”

Bea felt her own legs go weak. She looked around, afraid she’d fall, too. “You did that, Ric? To her?” Then she knew she’d believed this from the first time she heard Dolores say it. It had seemed wrong that Mal Hollister would rip Dolores’ clothes, batter her face, attack her. Looking at Ric, she saw it made sense like this. It was the crazy, drunken, violent crime Ric Suarez might commit.

At last she nodded. This was the way it had to be. She stared at him, huddled on the floor, penitent, weak and repulsive. She shivered. She barely dared trust herself to speak. “You better get out of here, Ric.”

He pulled himself to his feet but still leaned against the wall.

“I got to see her. I got to tell her.”

“I’ll tell her, Ric. But you better get out. If — they find out it was you — ”

She did not finish this. She saw him shiver, shaking his head. “The storm. I’m scared in the storm. It’s — like God is after me.”

She stared at him. “Take your chance on the storm, Ric. And on God. You’ve got a chance with them. You’ve got none — here.”

He looked about as though he’d never seen this place before, would never see it again. Lightning crashed white about them and she saw him cover his head with his arms. He opened his lips to speak to her, then shook his head. He stumbled down the steps, headlong, shoulders braced against the driving wind and rain.

She watched him sloshing through the ankle-deep water. Then he was lost in the darkness, suddenly gone, as though he’d never existed. Her first reaction was to run into the house and tell them all that Ric had hurt Dolores, as Dolores had tried to tell them, only she would make them listen, make them believe her. And she moved toward the door, and stopped. Al and Juan would race into the night, chasing down Ric. It would not solve anything to tell them now, only start some new horror. It was enough that she knew the truth. Only she wished she didn’t know it. She looked about at the stormy night, feeling frightened and lonely.

“Al,” she whispered. He was her strength, and she’d never known it until now. She turned quickly, hurrying into the front room.