The Feud (12 page)

He inhaled and said to Jack, “Listen, let the letter go for a while, and go out and see if Mom’s all right. O.K.?” Again Jack looked astonished. Tony added, “I’m worried about her, see? Maybe she should have a cup of coffee to calm her down.”

Jack lowered the pen, but then he picked it up again and screwed the top on it. “So it won’t dry up? You know? Did you ever try to write with one that—”

“Would you mind getting going?” Tony asked.

Jack shook his head. “Gee, Tony, you’re getting pretty nervous these days, aren’t you?”

Frieda Bullard was telling the Reverend Amburgy of some of the events that had preceded her husband’s admission to the mental ward of Merryvale Hospital. She suppressed certain details, not only because of the presence of the children: she would not have wanted to tell the whole story to the preacher.

“Junior went down the store at noontime, before he came home for his dinner, and he says looters had already cleaned out a good deal of the merchandise as was left after the fire. Well, you know that store was everything to Bud. He worked and saved and scraped—” Suddenly she was on the verge of tears, and to come back to normal she told her daughter, “You can have pop or plain milk.”

Eva made a face. “I was going to have a sundae.”

Frieda said, “I figured you had that in mind, but we got to watch our pennies now.”

The Reverend Amburgy looked uncomfortable. He cleared his throat and said, “Please permit me to pay for my own order.” Some people called him stingy, but Frieda was aware that his salary was not large; though it was true that his rent was free and the church bought his car, and he was a single man.

Junior said, in the almost angry voice he had been using for the past few days, “I’ll just have ice water.”

“Now, that’s not necessary,” Frieda said. “You have whatever you want, Junior.”

Eva wailed, “But
I
only get pop?”

“I’d think you could figure it out, Eva,” Frieda told her. “There isn’t any danger that Junie would order something expensive.” Eva went into a sulk. She didn’t need ice cream: it looked as though she was already getting a hickey on her chin. Her mother resumed the story.

“So Junior says there was still some kids around poking through the ashes, and he run ‘em off. But some of the bigger ones sassed him even though he says he was the owner’s boy, and—”

Junior interrupted angrily. “There was three or four, and I didn’t know any of ‘em. I don’t think they’re in school. Probly some of them hillbilly kids that quit when they’re sixteen. I ain’t yella, but they were three or four and real tall.”

The Reverend Amburgy smiled on Junior, who sat next to him, and he said, “Why, now, you mustn’t blame yourself. We all know you are a brave young man. That was a job for the police.” He patted Junior’s hand on the tabletop.

Frieda went on, “So uh course when Bud heard that he—well, he couldn’t even eat any of his dinner. He just went upstairs and got his gun.”

“Oh dear me,” said Amburgy, pursing the little lips in his chubby face.

“He always sold guns but he never even hunted, himself,” Frieda said. “So when he takes this shotgun—”

Amburgy said, “Was it loaded?” And when Frieda said yes, he murmured, “Oh, my.”

The waitress came and took their orders, and Frieda resumed. “So I was sure worried when he goes out with that gun. I knew he was headed for the store, or what was left of it, but there’s no arguing with Bud when he’s got his mind set on something, so I never said beans. Of course a man’s got a perfect right to protect his own property…”

“Certainly,” the preacher agreed, turning to smile at Junior.

Junior said in anger, “He should of shot them down like dogs.”

Amburgy’s expression turned to something like fright, and he turned back to Frieda.

She said, “I don’t think he actually shot
at
anybody personally. From what I hear, he was firing mostly up into the air. But I guess he kept it up for quite some time, even when there wasn’t nobody there any more, and then if some car just came by he got the idea that they might be some looters coming back, and so he’d shoot off his gun again. Ray Dooley was on duty at the station, and nobody reported it or anything: he could hear the shots from town hall, so he runs over in the cruiser, and there’s Bud shooting away.

“ ‘Say, Bud,’ Ray says, ‘I can’t letcha keep doing that. It’s against the law.’ ‘You just mind your own business, Ray,’ says Bud, ‘I’m only protecting what’s mine. A man’s gotta do that. He can’t leave it to others.’ ‘Near as I can see, Bud,’ Ray says, ‘ain’t got nothing left to protect. Come on now, gimme that shotgun.’ But Bud he wouldn’t put it down, so Ray finally says, pointing, ‘Oh-oh, they’re creeping up behind your back, Bud,’ and Bud he whirls around and shoots into the ashes, and Ray conks him with his nightstick, lays him out cold.

“Then he hauls him back home, and he says, ‘Let’s get this poor devil in bed, Frieda. You take this here gun and keep it away from him until he settles down. Somebody might get hurt otherwise, and it would sure be a shame, with all the bad luck Bud’s been having lately.’ “

She stopped talking so that the waitress could serve their refreshments: two coffees, one Coke, and an Orange Crush for the preacher.

“You put lots uh cream in that,” Frieda urged Junior. “Don’t want to stunt your growth.” She told Amburgy, “Some won’t let a young person drink coffee at all, but I think it’s O.K. if diluted.”

The stout minister said, “Speaking for myself, it gives me acid stomach.” His drink had come in the bottle, with a straw: he now sucked at the latter while raising his eyebrows toward Frieda.

She resumed, “Bud came to with quite a headache, as you might expect, but what could Ray have done otherwise to stop him from shooting up the town? He seemed to understand that himself, and was real sorry about the whole thing.” What she did not say was that when an attempt was made to put Bud properly to bed, he began to fight with the policeman, who was a head taller than he and had forty pounds on him, and Ray had to restrain him in a pair of handcuffs. Dr. Swan came and put him under with a shot, and the ambulance boys, who said they were just back from another emergency down at the mill, hauled him here to Merryvale, where at present he was technically under observation, though practically he was still out.

“So anyway Doc Swan thought they might figure out what was ailing him if he stayed here overnight, but naturally we’re worried, and I sure thank you for giving us the ride. It’s times like this I regret I never learned to drive.”

The Reverend Amburgy looked solemn. “Only too glad to help out, Frieda. That’s what I’m for. I call on all folks from the congregation who get sick. The kind of thing that is troubling Bud, well, maybe I can talk to him some: that might be the sort of medicine which would do him more benefit than morphine.”

Frieda shook her head. “Is that what the doctor gave him?”

“I would imagine,” said Amburgy, his gaze drifting away.

“That’s awful strong stuff, isn’t it? I didn’t think he was in that bad uh trouble.”

The preacher looked at something off to the left for another instant or two, and then he came back to her. He said, “Excuse me. I couldn’t help but notice a young boy at the counter over there. Earlier he was sitting with another boy, the one who just a minute ago walked right past here on his way out, if you noticed. But the second one sat there for a minute longer, and then he left the stool and went around the other side of the counter, but then all at once disappeared. He must have scrooched down below it. He still hasn’t come up. I wonder where he went?”

They all looked in the appropriate direction, Frieda and her daughter turning in the booth.

Seeing the group movement, the waitress came to them. “Check?”

The Reverend Amburgy said, “We were just curious about where that boy went, that other boy at the counter.”

The waitress, a stringy-haired woman wearing earrings, said, “I’ll find out.” And off she went.

Amburgy simpered in a certain embarrassment. “I don’t know,” said he, “if it’s
that
important.”

Frieda turned back, but Eva kept looking toward the counter. Junior was still blowing on his coffee. “See,” said his mother, “you probably should have got a cool drink of some kind.”

When the waitress came back she was snickering. “He went out through the kitchen. Cook saw him come walking in, all bent over, and thought he got sick.” She laughed raucously. “Ptomaine, you know? Anyway, out he goes by the service door. I guess it was some kinda joke he was playing. He wasn t sneaking out, anyway. He paid the check.”

Junior, with a sneer, tried his coffee. The Reverend chuckled briefly, and then he siphoned up the remainder of his orange drink. “I do have to make my other rounds,” said he. “Should I look in later on you in the waiting room? Do you have any idea how long you’ll stay?”

“Gosh, I don’t,” said Frieda. “I just figure we ought to be here, so that when Bud comes to, he won’t feel like we deserted him. But I don’t know what the rules are. Maybe they’ll want to kick us out by a certain time.”

Amburgy extricated himself from the booth, the edge of the tabletop temporarily scoring his belly. When he was out and standing erect, he said, “I’m afraid I can’t be here tonight because of the regular weekly meeting of the Bible Club. I can’t bring you home if you stay that late.”

“Now, don’t you worry yourself none about that, Reverend,” said Frieda. “We’ll make out O.K. There’s the bus, and then who knows if we won’t run into somebody going our way.”

As Jack came back to the coffee shop he stared with interest at the girl with the group in the booth. She did not return his glance or give any indication that she was aware of his passing. He went to the empty counter and shrugged. The waitress came over to him.

“Looking for your friend?” She giggled stupidly. “He just left.”

“Oh.”

“You didn’t see him in that hall,” she explained, “because he snuck out the kitchen.” She laughed some more.

“So?” That might seem like a funny thing to do, but why admit it to this person?

“He’s a real nut!” said she.

Jack left the coffee shop. Going in this direction, he could see only the back of the head and shoulders of the girl in the booth. She had not appeared to be as sophisticated as Mary Catherine Lutz, because she was younger, but he liked her a lot. However, he and she were like ships that pass at sea and never the twain shall meet again.

If Tony had left via the kitchen, he had gone outside, probably en route to the car for some reason. Therefore instead of returning directly to the waiting room, Jack left the building by the front door and walked to the parking lot. Nope, the car was there, but no Tony. Nearby a fat man with glasses was rolling down the window and smiling at him from the driver’s seat of another automobile. He smiled back.

“Hi, there,” said the fat guy. “Weren’t you in the coffee shop just now?”

“That’s right.” Jack was somewhat flattered.

“I couldn’t help but notice you and your friend. He left in an unusual way while you were gone.”

Tony seemed to have acquired an instant fame for this episode. “Yeah. He’s my brother.”

“Ah…” The man smiled a while longer. He wasn’t the sort of older person Jack found very interesting: he seemed sissified. “Say, you wouldn’t like a ride back to Millville?”

“No thanks,” said Jack. “We got a car. Anyhow, we’re from Hornbeck.”

This information seemed to please the fat man. “Oh, how nice,” he said. “But that’s not far away. Maybe we’ll meet again sometime. You’re welcome to come over at any time to our Young People’s Nights in the church basement. I’m the minister there.” He told Jack where the church could be found.

That explained a lot. Jack had begun to get the uncomfortable suspicion that this guy might have it in mind to corner him somewhere and slide a fat hand between his legs, which had happened once the previous summer with a man who was parked near the public swimming pool; he said he was lost and couldn’t figure out where he was on the state road map, and Jack’s showing him with a fingernail did not do the job, because the map was upside down; so he got into the passenger’s seat, and the man slipped a hand under the map as he held it and rubbed his crotch with strong fingers; at first this didn’t feel bad, but then he thought about it and saw that it was creepy; so having indicated where Hornbeck could be located, he politely left the car.

He said good-bye to the preacher now and went into the waiting room, where not only Tony but also Dr. Kinney had joined his mother.

Whatever the doctor had reported, he was finished by the time Jack arrived and, holding his black bag, was obviously anxious to get going elsewhere.

The doctor was saying, “—easy, Bobby. Worrying yourself to a frazzle won’t help, now will it?” He clapped her on the shoulder, and then he looked at Jack and said, “Don’t tell me this is who I think it is? Looks like you put on a few ounces, Jackson.”

Jack had always had difficulty in gaining weight. He had never eaten much because he was rarely hungry. Dr. Kinney had prescribed a tonic for him that was supposed to increase the appetite, but he couldn’t feel any difference. However, he didn’t want to insult the doctor, who was only doing a job, and therefore he said yes, he was eating better.

After the doctor had departed, his mother said, “We’ll just go home and keep our fingers crossed.”

As usual, Jack had to ask what had happened. He seemed always to be somewhere else when information was handed out.

“Nothing,” said his mother. “They’re keeping Dad real quiet. There’s nothing to do but wait, so I guess we can do that at home. I gave Doctor Kinney Dad’s pajamas and shaving stuff to take in.”

“Where’d you have that all this while?”

“Didn’t you notice that shopping bag I was carrying?”

Darned if he did. He was aware that some details eluded him, and that was annoying, because he thought of himself as a keen observer as well as a shrewd judge of character: though so far as the latter went, he had been wrong about the preacher, who might not even be really a sissy. He might be just a gentleman, who spoke in that very clear way in the fashion of those actors who wore Ascots and velvet smoking jackets with fringed belts, who were sometimes Englishmen or just imitating them.