Songs in Ordinary Time Page 63

  Twice last night he’d parked down the street from her house, staring at the light streaming through her filmy curtains, trying to work up the courage to ring her doorbell. Never had he felt lonelier than in these past two weeks. Sometimes it seemed that there was a hole so big inside him nothing would ever fill it.

  When he was done with the car, he ate supper, and then he drove slowly around the park to see if any of his friends were at the band concert. It was a cool starry night with enough of a breeze so that people stood shivering with their blankets around their shoulders. Many had begun to leave. As he came down West Street he was surprised to see Joey Seldon sitting on his stool. Victor the cop stood next to the stand with his arms folded. It had been a week since Joey had been ordered to vacate the stand. Each day another town official came to reason with him, but Joey would have no part of their hypocritical logic. He had an agreement, a contract with the town, and it was the town that had failed to meet its own stipulations, he explained to anyone who’d listen. Even Friday’s editorial in the Atkinson Crier was calling for “a reexamination of this most sensitive issue.”

  Norm parked the car and was reading the editorial, which was tacked on one of the cornerposts. “See,” Joey said, poking a hand out between the boards. He pointed to the last line. “See what it says here. ‘The shameful condition of the stand in the park represents the town’s dereliction of responsibility to one of its most colorful citizens.’”

  “Hey, that’s pretty good, Joey,” he said, pitying the old man’s proud grin, and for a minute he didn’t know what to say.

  “So how’s the new car?” Joey asked.

  “Great! ’Course I got some work to do on it. The timing’s all off.”

  “As well as most of the paint,” Joey said, laughing, and Norm didn’t say anything. Their eyes met and Joey looked away. “Here,” Joey said, handing him a bag of popcorn. “It’s on the house,” he said with an unmistakable glance at the dime Norm held out.

  Up in the bandstand Jarden Greene’s arms were a blur as the musicians played “The Syncopated Clock” faster and faster. Greene kept glancing back at the steady stream of people leaving the park.

  “He thinks if the band plays louder and faster, they’ll all stay.” Joey laughed.

  Norm looked at him. How had he known? Just by all the car doors opening and shutting. Engines starting. Of course. After all these years Joey knew all the sounds. All you had to do was say hello and Joey’d know if you were happy or sad. “Want some help with the empties? They’re all over the place,” he said, picking up a bottle.

  “That’s not even mine,” Joey said.

  “What?” he asked slowly. “What’s not yours?”

  “That bottle you got.”

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “Kelly’s LimeAde.”

  “How do you know?”

  “By the smell,” Joey said with an exaggerated wink and a grin.

  Norm looked away. Could it be that he wasn’t blind? That it had been a scam all these years, an act? He probably was getting a kickback the night Towler’s still blew up. Norm thought of all the times he’d crated Joey’s empties, guided him across the busy West Street intersection, felt so trustworthy to be able to count his money at the end of the night, when the whole time Joey’d been watching him like a hawk. He remembered his anger at Jarden Greene’s insistence that Joey’s mugging had been staged. The old man probably tripped and fell and then said he’d been robbed so that people would feel so sorry for him they’d stop trying to close his stand. Nothing but a phony, a con man like Duvall, milking people’s kindness.

  “Well I gotta go now, Joey.” He tossed the popcorn into the barrel, certain he saw old man wince.

  “Wait, let me get you a Coke, then.”

  “No, thanks,” he said, calling goodbye as he headed up the street.

  “How about a 7-Up then?”

  “I’m not thirsty!” he called, and when he got to the Hotdog Bus he stopped at the window and ordered a raspberry freeze. He turned with the tall frosted cup and, sure enough, Joey watched sadly. He looked right at the old man, forced a quick cold smile before turning away.

  Renie stared at the ceiling. In the kitchen Sam and Helen argued right outside his door. Water was running into a pan. Helen had just called Dr. Reynolds about her mother’s congestion.

  “Congestion!” Sam roared. “She can barely breathe. Will you face the facts, Helen. Mother’s dying.”

  The linoleum made squeaky sticking sounds as Sam paced back and forth. Renie knew their footsteps, their sighs, and which closing door had been shut by whom. Surely now, Sam followed his sister from chore to chore. At their most agitated, each would be hard upon the other’s tender heels.

  “Sorry to disappoint you, dear brother, but Mother is not dying. She has a cold, a very bad cold, which Dr. Reynolds is treating.” Helen’s voice quavered.

  “What’s he going to do? Give her another shot?” Sam shouted.

  “Yes, give her another shot! The penicillin’s working.”

  “Come on, Helen!”

  “Oh! And what’s your solution? You’re so involved, tell me what to do!” Helen said, and a cupboard door banged shut, all the cups tinkling on their hooks.

  “Face the facts….”

  “The facts! Facts! I live with the facts every single minute of every single day and night….”

  The doorbell was ringing. Helen’s heels hurried through the house.

  “Jesus Christ,” Sam muttered.

  Renie jumped up and raced around his room, dressing quickly. He put his razor and rolled-up tie into his pocket so he could shave at work. He’d leave while Dr. Reynolds’s presence kept them both at bay.

  The driveway filled with a rumble that shook the walls. He peeked out his window and saw the garbage truck idling below as Jozia kissed Grondine Carson goodbye.

  “You’re late,” he heard Sam say when she came into the kitchen.

  “Miz LaChance said I could,” Jozia replied.

  “Well, she’s awful mad. She said she needs someone she can depend on.”

  “She said that? Miz LaChance said that? After all I’ve done for her. Well, that’s it, I’m—”

  “No, no, no. Calm down, Jozia,” Sam said. “I was only kidding. Helen says you can do what you want. In fact, she was just in here saying how you need a day off, but it was probably too late to call you.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Grondine’s still collecting. I can hear him.”

  “Well, if you hurry you can catch up with him.”

  “Will you tell Miz LaChance thanks?”

  “Sure. I’ll tell her. Bye, Jozia.” The back door banged shut.

  “Good morning, Renie,” Sam said without looking up from his coffee as Renie came out of his room. Just then Helen looked in past the swinging door. “Where’s Jozia? I need her.”

  Sam covered his mouth and shook his head. “The dear dim girl said it was her day off.”

  “Her what?” Helen gasped. Tears swelled in her eyes. Behind her Dr. Reynolds called and she stepped quickly back from the door.

  Sam looked at Renie and shrugged.

  “You shouldn’ta done that,” Renie said.

  “Tomorrow the ax may fall,” Sam said with a grin, “but at least for today I can sleep without her goddamn vacuum banging my door.” He winked. “But thanks for the warning,” he said, opening the newspaper. He held it between them.

  Renie stood, rubbing his forearm. He opened his mouth, then changed his mind. It was between them two. There wasn’t much here that involved him. He started for the door.

  “Hey, Reen, if you see any of my kids today, tell them their old man says hi.”

  “You tell ’em yourself,” he muttered.

  The newspaper lowered slowly. Sam tilted his head with amusement. “Sore spot? Sorry, Reen. Didn’t mean to offend you. You can tape up all the pictures you want, but they are my kids.”

 
Renie’s lip trembled. He’d never felt more like hitting someone. “They’re Marie’s kids. She’s the only one that deserves them,” he said.

  “You got that right, Renie,” Sam called after him. “You sure as hell got that right.”

  As he drove down the hill he was thinking about the young woman on the phone last week. Since then he’d tried every conceivable combination of numbers, sometimes dialing and redialing in a breathless frenzy. He could barely recall her voice, but he remembered every word she had spoken.

  The moment Renie turned the corner he saw the cruiser in front of the store. Officer Heinze stood on the top step talking to Mr. Fredette, the building manager. The front door was open. They hurried down to his car as he pulled up to the curb.

  “Bad news, Renie,” Mr. Fredette gasped. “You’ve been broken into. They came in through the cellar, and they left by the front door.”

  Renie raced into the store.

  “They busted a window,” Mr. Fredette said on his heels. “Jimmy called me at home.”

  “Doesn’t seem to be too much missing,” Heinze said.

  “Tom!” Renie called as he ran down the cellar stairs. “Come on, Tom! Come on out! It’s okay, Tom! I’m here now, Tom! Tom!” he bellowed, turning so suddenly he collided with Officer Heinze, who had followed him into the musty cellar. Tom’s untouched food and milk dishes were still on the landing by the door. Maybe he was hiding up in the store. He opened every cupboard, looked behind every box and appliance, stretching his hand into the dirtiest crevices. Tom was gone. Heinze had spotted the front door ajar at five-thirty this morning. “He must’ve escaped, either out the busted cellar window or the front door,” Heinze said.

  Escaped. Renie cringed. That made it sound as if Tom stayed only because he was locked up. Escaped: as if, like Riddles, Tom just couldn’t wait to get away.

  Chief Stoner came through the door with Mr. Fredette and Heinze both talking to him at once. Renie looked out at the empty street. “So what’s the story, Renie?” Stoner asked.

  He shrugged. He couldn’t talk now. Everything was too thin, his voice, his strength, the air. Mr. Fredette took it upon himself to explain that Renie felt bad because Tom had escaped.

  Sonny interrupted to ask if anything else was missing besides the cat. Conscious of Sonny’s stern gaze, Renie went down cellar and looked in the crevice under the stairs. It was gone. His secret cashbox was gone.

  “No,” he said, standing up. “Nothing I can see.” He couldn’t very well admit to three hundred dollars that wasn’t even on the books, now, could he? He shuddered at the thought of the IRS examining all his records again, searching through his private life.

  “What about inventory?” Sonny asked, picking up an electric razor. “Any of that missing?”

  Renie glanced around. “Nothing’s missing.”

  The Chief put the razor down so hard it banged on the counter. He looked terrible. He was unshaven and his eyes were bloodshot and puffy. “Why don’t you look around, Renie, and be sure,” he said, picking up the razor and setting it down again gently, then fiddling with it, moving it a hair to the left, as if to balance it with something.

  Renie glanced over both shoulders. “I’m sure. Everything’s here. Except Tom,” he added, fidgeting under the Chief’s steady gaze. He wished they’d leave so he could start searching. Maybe Tom was just hiding out in the alley. If he put the food dishes on the back steps, then Tom would know it was safe to return. He opened the cellar door. “Kitty!” he whispered, “Come on, kitty, kitty, kitty, kitty,” he called softly as he bent to pick up the dishes. A hand grasped the back of his shirt and tugged him upright.

  “Renie!” Chief Stoner barked, his tight jaw quivering. His forefinger stabbed the air for emphasis. “A crime has been committed here! And this is an investigation, and we need your help here now! And you damn well better give it! Do you understand?”

  Renie took a deep breath. “I just want to find my cat, that’s all,” he whispered, the loss swamping his voice.

  “You will, Renie. Tom’ll come back. I know he will,” Mr. Fredette piped.

  Stoner closed his eyes and sighed. “I’m sorry about the cat. But you see, we have a pretty good idea who’s breaking in all these places, but so far I got nothing concrete.” He explained that if things were missing and if the suspect still had them, then they’d have the proof necessary to make an arrest.

  Renie walked around the store and checked each display. He counted boxes on shelves, not because he knew exactly how many should be there, but to demonstrate his cooperation. Heinze had gone back down cellar with Mr. Fredette. Renie stopped and glanced back at the empty shelf next to the stoves. The MixMaid set was gone, and so was the box. The thief had even taken the box. “Chief!” he called, hurrying to the top of the cellar stairs. Behind him a door creaked. Oh God. Oh no. Sonny carried a telephone book as he emerged from the bathroom.

  Renie explained that the MixMaid set was missing. “He must’ve packed it back in the box,” he said as the Chief came toward him with a strange expression. “Probably because of all the parts. You know, beaters and whips. Not only that, but there’s four different-size bowls. See,” he cried, thrusting a MixMaid pamphlet at Stoner. “And covers, too.” He cleared his throat while Sonny glanced at the glossy brochure, before slipping it into his breast pocket. The silence between them grew while downstairs the muffled voices seemed to scurry underfoot like the mice Tom hunted. “I almost could’ve sold it last week. Bob Haddad said he wanted to buy it.”

  “What’s this all about, Renie?” Sonny asked.

  Renie stared, shaking his head, teeth clenched.

  Sonny put on his glasses. He wet his finger and turned the pages. “Eunice Bonifante,” he said, looking over the rims. “You call her, don’t you, Renie?”

  He nodded, unable to look away.

  “Sometimes at five, huh? But mostly at night. Around eleven. Sometimes Saint Mary’s bells are ringing when you call.” Sonny sighed. “You still call her, Renie?”

  He shook his head. In the last few weeks Eunice had sworn and slammed down the phone the minute she heard his voice.

  “Mrs. Tinsdale…Mrs. Block…Mrs. Cherno…Klubock…Heering. My God! You call all these women? Renie, do you know what could happen? Don’t you know this is against the law?”

  The voices rose and fell downstairs. Sonny talked and talked, and Renie absorbed every accusation and chastisement, though it wasn’t necessary. Like an excised organ, some vital part of him was already beginning to shrivel up. It was gone, all of it, over, and with the loss, he was shrinking. He grew smaller and smaller, so small that he was surprised when Sonny continued to speak to him. Helen didn’t care what he did or where he went. No one did. Strangely, the truth, instead of hurting, came as a relief, an unburdening. As a rule people did not like him, and no matter how hard he tried, nothing, nothing could ever change that basic fact. He felt so light now, so weightless that he gripped the counter edge to anchor himself. It was over, over, over, over. That’s why Tom had run away.

  “No more calls, Renie. You understand? Well, do you?”

  He nodded. Eyes downcast, he kept nodding.

  “Sometimes things happen, things a man wouldn’t ever do if he was thinking straight,” Sonny said. He glanced toward the cellar door. They were coming back up. Sonny grabbed his arm. “Believe me, I know! I know!” he insisted.

  “Are you going to put me in jail?” Renie gasped, his tears distorting everything.

  The two men came through the door with blurred features.

  “’Course I’m not,” Stoner said softly.

  “Tom’ll be back, Renie. You’ll see,” Mr. Fredette said, his voice shrill with indignation. “You were damn good to that cat, and he knows it.” He patted Renie on the back.

  “And me, I’m always around,” Heinze said. “I’m bound to see him.”

  Sonny assured him the thief would be under arrest in a just a few more days. It was only a matter of time. From
now on, he and his men were going to come down so hard on a certain individual he wasn’t even going to be able to crap anymore without them knowing it. “Come on, Jimmy,” Sonny said, patting the pamphlet in his pocket. “Let’s go see what kinda cake his ma’s making.”

  After they left, Renie poured fresh milk into Tom’s bowl. He opened a can of tuna fish and emptied it into a dish. Some of the tuna chunks were blood-streaked. He had cut his finger on the jagged edge of the can. He squeezed the cut and let it bleed onto the tuna. Maybe the blood would be an even stronger lure, and then he would be a part of Tom and Tom would stay with him forever. He set both dishes outside the back door.

  “Open the door, Mrs. Carper. This is Officer Jimmy Heinze speaking, and I got the Chief here with me, too. Chief Stoner.”

  “I know who you are, and I’m not opening the door,” she hollered back.

  “Okay, now it was his turn. “You have to, Hildie,” Sonny said. “It’s the law, and you just have to, that’s all. Now open up. All we want to do is look around.”

  “Well, I’m not letting you. This is my home, and there’s nothing here to see.”

  “Want me to?” Heinze hissed, gesturing his shoulder at the door.

  Sonny shook his head no. “Blue in there?” he called.

  “If you’re looking for him, you came to the wrong place!” she said disgustedly.

  “Well, actually, I’m looking for something. Something he brought here.”

  “What’s that?”

  He paused, considering how much to tell her. “A MixMaid,” he read from the pamphlet. “That’s an electric mixer, a kind of beater,” he said, wincing at her sour laughter.

  “There’s no MixMaid here, I can tell you that much,” she said with a derisive hoot.

  Telling her he’d have to see for himself, he rattled the knob. When she didn’t respond, he nodded at Heinze, who drew back eagerly. Just then the door opened and her angular freckled face stared up at them. A pretty woman, she looked a lot like Blue, but she was tiny, he realized as he stepped past her. With the shades drawn the house was dark, surprisingly neat. A lot cleaner than his own, he noted. Her two younger sons sat on the couch reading comic books. “How you doing, boys?” he said. “Could you maybe sit out on the porch a minute, till we call you back in.”