Sideswipe (13 page)

He was awakened at five by the telephone. When he heard the phone he didn't know how long it had been ringing. It was on the kitchen wall, and Stanley, who was wearing his socks but not his shoes, slipped on the terrazzo floor and almost fell when he rushed to answer it. He picked up the receiver.

"Hello."

There was no answer.

"Hello. Who is this?"

The person at the other end hung up. Stanley hung up, too. He hated it when people did that. If they had a wrong number he expected them to say so, not just hang up without a word. But what if it was intentional? Someone trying to harass him. He could expect that--if someone thought he was a child molester. Well, he wouldn't let that bother him... but it -did- bother him. He poured a six-ounce can of prune juice into a glass, added ice cubes, turned on the television, and watched a rerun of "Kojak." He had missed the first few minutes, and it was one he hadn't seen before.

A little after six, just after the news came on, a taxi pulled up outside and stopped at the curb. Stanley went to the window, then hurried to open the front door as Troy Louden came up the walk.

"Evening, Pop. Let me have a five, will you? I've got to pay the cabbie."

Stanley took out his wallet and gave Troy a five-dollar bill.

"Better give me one more, Pop--for a tip."

Troy paid the driver and then came back to the house.

"Sit down, sit down, Troy," Stanley said, indicating the recliner and switching off the TV. "It's good to see you, son! I delivered your message, the way you said, even though I didn't want to. Mr. Collins wasn't to home though, so I gave it to his wife."

"I know, Pop, that's why I'm here. To thank you. The message was just an empty threat, but it worked out just like I told you it would. Collins came down to the lock-up and told them that he'd been mistaken. The knock on his head had confused him, and being dazed that way, he only -thought- I had a gun. The sergeant wasn't too happy about it, but Collins had this bandage on his head so he couldn't say that Collins had intentionally filed a false arrest charge, either. When they let me out, I told the sergeant I wanted to see Collins and tell him there was no hard feelings, but he'd already left. Did you tell Mrs. Collins your name? When you talked to her, I mean?"

"No, I just told her I was a messenger."

"Did you get my clipping back?"

"She kept it. I guess she showed it to Mr. Collins when he got home. He was out getting insurance estimates for his car."

"That's okay, Pop. It was a nice little story, but I've still got a few more clippings."

"Would you like some coffee, Troy? I don't have any beer, but--"

"Coffee'll be fine, but let me fix it. You had dinner yet?"

"I was going to wait till after the news."

"Watch the news, then. I'll fix dinner for both of us, and you stay out here while I work in the kitchen. Hell, that's the least I can do for you."

Instead of watching the news on television, Stanley sat at the pass-through counter while Troy prepared dinner. He delivered a bitter diatribe against his wife for leaving him, against his son, and Sergeant Sneider, and his neighbors, and Mr. Wheeler at the bank. Troy didn't interrupt him until Stanley told him about the mysterious phone call.

"That must've been me, Pop. I borrowed a phone at the station and called to see if you were here. I didn't have any money for a cab or a bus, but I knew if you were home you'd take care of it. I didn't say anything else because I didn't want the sergeant listening in, you know? Ordinarily, I wouldn't've come directly to your house in a cab, but would've taken the bus, got off a couple of stops away from your house. Cab drivers keep a log, so I can be traced to your address. But inasmuch as I'm leaving for Miami, it won't matter. I didn't want to leave for Miami without thanking you--"

"I'm glad it was you, Troy. I don't like the idea of getting scary calls like that."

"You still might get a few crank calls, Pop. But don't worry if you do. People who phone instead of facing you in person aren't the ones you have to worry about. You might get some eggs or rocks thrown at your house at night, too. But that'll be teenagers. They'll hear their folks talking, you see, and they'll consider you fair game. But after the word on your innocence gets around, it'll all blow over. That is, if word does get around. It doesn't seem likely that this Sneider guy and his wife will go around the neighborhood telling everyone that their daughter's a pre-puberty hooker."

"I wish you hadn't told me that."

When dinner was ready, Stanley set the dining-room table. Troy had cooked individual meat loaves, parsley potatoes, and beets -a l'orange-, using a covered bowl of leftover beets he had discovered in the refrigerator. There was no lettuce, but Troy had arranged a decorative pinwheel of alternating tomato and cucumber slices, garnishing the platter with stuffed deviled egg halves. He made eight cups of coffee in the Mr. Coffee machine and showed Stanley how to work it in the future.

"Seems to me, Troy," Stanley said, with his mouth full, "you can do most anything. I never had to learn how to cook, so I never got around to it."

"What you need," Troy advised, "is a housekeeper. A half-day would be plenty. She could clean your house, fix your breakfast and lunch, and then leave your dinner in the fridge to warm up at night."

"I couldn't afford that. I'm on a fixed income."

"Wouldn't cost you much. If you got an illegal Haitian woman, you could pay her a buck an hour and change your luck on the side."

Stanley put his fork down on his empty plate. He had eaten the beets, a vegetable he detested. "Know what I been thinking, Troy? I was kinda hoping you'd stay here with me for a while. I've never lived alone before, and I'm just rattling around this house. It's only two bedrooms, and the porch, but it seems like a big place for a man all alone. There's a single bed in the guest room, and you can have that all to yourself. And if you want to find a job of some kind in town, you can live here free. Won't cost you a cent."

Troy grimaced. "I don't like the confinement of a steady job, Pop. I thought I explained that to you. I've got a little deal working in Miami, however, which'll bring me in some quick cash--quite a lot of it, if it all works out. But I won't be sure till I get down there and check it out. I'll need to borrow a few dollars from you to get to Miami, for bus fare, because the desk sergeant advised me to leave town. In fact, he was pretty emphatic about it."

"I can let you have thirty dollars. That's about all I've got on me now, but if you want to wait till tomorrow I'll cash a check and give you some more. But I sure wish you'd stay with me for a few days. Hard work never hurt nobody, and a smart young fella like you could get a job easy in Riviera Beach--"

"That's enough!" Troy said. The white scar on his forehead had turned pink. "Who in the fuck are you to tell me how to live? You don't know a damned thing about living. You don't understand your wife, your son, or even how your mind works, and that's because you've never had to use it. I've learned more about living in thirty years than you have in twice that long." Troy got up from the table, took his coffee into the living room, and sat in the recliner.

The old man followed him and put his hand gingerly on Troy's shoulder. "I'm sorry, son. I didn't mean to rile you none. You don't have to get a job to stay here. I didn't mean that. I never got along good with my son, but I've been able to talk to you, and I've got enough money coming in each month that the two of us can live here pretty good. I'm worried about you, that's all. Going down to Miami, broke as you are, you might get into some trouble."

"I might at that." Troy grinned. "But I don't think so. If everything works out, I won't need any money for a year or so, maybe longer. But I appreciate the offer. Maybe I'll come back from Miami and spend a few days with you-- in a couple of weeks or so. How does that sound?"

"It sounds fine. I'll write my phone number down for you, and you can call me when you're coming and I'll get some steaks and stuff."

"Good. How about some kind of dessert?" Troy put his cup on the cobbler's bench that served as a coffee table. "Anything you like. I'll fix it."

"No thanks, Troy, I'm not much on sweets."

"Suit yourself." Troy tapped the cobbler's bench with a forefinger. "I worked in a shoe repair shop once, a program for young offenders in L.A. I really hated the smell of cobbler's glue."

"Now that's a good trade--" Stanley started to say something else, but changed his mind.

Troy cleared the table and washed the dishes, pots, and pans. If Troy had asked him to help, Stanley would have been glad to, but the thought of volunteering never occurred to him. Finished, Troy reentered the living room, drying his hands on a dish towel.

"It's a peculiar thing, old-timer, but a man your age can learn something from me, although it should be the other way 'round. First I'll tell you something about me, and then I'll tell you about you."

"A man can always learn something new." Stanley filled his pipe. "There's an extra pipe if you want to smoke. I don't have no cigarettes."

"I don't smoke."

"Smoking is a comfort to a man sometimes. I like to smoke a pipe sometimes after dinner, but I don't smoke during the day--"

"Smoking comforts ordinary men, but I'm not an ordinary man. There aren't many like me left." Troy drew his lips back, exposing small even teeth. "And it's a good thing for the world that there isn't. There'll always be a few of us in America, in every generation, because only a great country like America can produce men like me. I'm not a thinker, I'm a doer. I'm considered inarticulate, so I talk a lot to cover it up.

"When you look back a few years, America's produced a fair number of us at that. Sam Houston, Jack London, Stanley Ketchel, Charlie Manson--I met him in Bakersfield once--Jack Black. Did you ever read You Can't Win, Jack Black's autobiography?"

"I been a working man most of my life, Troy. I never had much time for reading books."

"You mean you never -took- the time. I've just named a few men of style, my style, although they'd all find the comparison odious. Know why? They were all individualists, that's why. They all made their own rules, the way I do. But most of us won't rate a one-line obit in a weekly newspaper. Sometimes that rankles." Troy paused, and his brow wrinkled. "There was a writer one time... funny, I can't think of his name." Troy laughed, and shook his head. "It'll come to me after a while. What I'll do is pretend I don't want to remember it, then it'll come to me. Anyway, this famous writer said that men living in cities were like a bunch of rocks in a leather bag. They're all rubbed up against each other till they're round and smooth as marbles. If they stay in the bag long enough, there'll be no rough edges left, is the idea. But I've managed to keep my rough edges, every sharpened corner.

"But you, old-timer, you're as round and polished as an agate. You've been living in that bag for seventy-one years, man. They could put you on TV as the perfect specimen of American male. You're the son of a Polish immigrant, and you've worked all your life for an indifferent capitalistic corporation. Your son's a half-assed salesman, and you've had the typical, unhappy sexless marriage. And now, glorious retirement in sunny Florida. The only thing missing is a shiny new car in the driveway for you to wash and polish on Sundays."

"I've got a car, Troy! A new Escort, but Maya took it when she left."

"I'm not running you down, Pop. I like you. But life has tricked you. You fell into the trap and didn't know you were caught. But I'm a basic instinctive man, and that's the difference between us. Instinct, Pop." Troy lowered his voice to a whisper. "Instinct. You've survived, but mere existence isn't enough. To live, you have to be aware, and then follow your inclinations wherever they lead. Don't care what others think about you. Your own life is the only important thing, and nothing else matters. Want some more coffee?"

"I better not. I got me a little bladder problem. If I drink more than one cup it gets me up at night."

Troy got another cup of coffee. He returned to the living room and grinned at the puzzled expression on the old man's face.

"If I were in your shoes, Pop, I'd enjoy the situation. Quit feeling sorry for yourself. All of a sudden you've departed from the norm, and now people are noticing you. Yet you're upset because your neighbors are disturbed. Why should you worry about what they say or think about you? You survivors think you're living out here in Ocean Pines Terraces. What you're doing, you're dying out here."

"I worked hard all my life, and I was a fine craftsman. I took pride in my work--"

"Did you? You hated it, Pop. You told me you got sick every day from the smell of paint and turpentine, but what about the bathroom back there? Did you get sick when you painted the bathroom?"

"No, but that ain't the same as working on the line."

"Sure it is. The paint's the same and the smell's the same. But you didn't get sick because you were working for yourself, and you painted it the color you wanted. I don't want to hurt your feelings, but maybe you should take off the blinders. Where's the phone book? I want to find out when the bus leaves for Miami."

"Right there." Stanley pointed. "Under that pile of -Good Housekeeping- magazines, on the counter."