I suspect, he thought, that you suspect. And, he thought, what do you suspect, for Christ’s sake? Because right now it’s just too vague.
Virginia said, “Oh, I meant to tell you. You’ll probably get mad, but anyhow—” She smiled. “Liz left her purse in one of the downtown department stores. We had to drive all the way back to Pasadena for it; we just barely got back by closing time.”
“Was it there?”
“Yes, one of the clerks put it behind the counter. Chic says she does that all the time.”
So there vanishes that, he thought.
See? he thought. Look what can be done with the hiss. Look at the voices you can hear in the hum for no reason.
Hummmmmmmmmmmmmmm, the world said to him. On all sides. Everywhere. Hiss and hum. Trying to reach him, speak out to him.
“What are you thinking?” Virginia said. “You look so gloomy.”
“I’m thinking about color TV.”
“Don’t think about it.”
“I can’t help it,” he said. “I’m thinking about a warehouse full of black-and-white TV sets that I’ll have to practically give away.”
“Try to think of something pleasant,” Virginia said.
“I’ll try,” he said. “I’ll try the best I can.”
On Sunday afternoon he put Gregg into the Oldsmobile and drove over to the Bonners’ In broad daylight their small tract house looked shabby; it needed paint around the windows, but at least the lawn had been cut. The red station wagon, parked out front, still had its coat of dust. On one fender somebody, probably the two boys, had traced letters in the dust, indistinct initials.
As he closed the door of the Olds, he thought, I might even be able to read something in those initials traced on the car fender.
“Are we going back now?” Gregg asked, as they crossed the street.
“Pretty soon.” The time was one-thirty. They had some latitude.
“Mommy isn’t coming, is she? I thought Mommy was coming.” The boy blinked morosely.
“Mommy asked me to drive you,” he said. “I’m driving Walt and Jerry, too.” In his tone of joking he said, “Of course, if my driving isn’t good enough for you, maybe you’d like to hire a cab with the forty cents you’ve got saved up.”
Gregg said, “Couldn’t we go a little later?”
“We’ll see,” he said, leading his son up onto the porch of the Bonner house and ringing the bell.
No one answered the bell. He rang again. The house had an air of emptiness.
“Maybe they’re not home,” he said to Gregg. And then he discovered that he was standing on the porch alone; Gregg had slipped off. Son-of-a-bitch, Roger said to himself. He left the porch and walked across the lawn. “Gregg!” he said.
His son appeared from around the side of the house. “They’re in the backyard,” he said. “They’re out back.”
“Okay,” Roger said. He accompanied his son along the path between the side of the house and the fence, through a gate, past a bush, and into the backyard.
The collie dog sat in the center of a terraced lawn, its feet before it. The yard looked better than the front. At the rear were several fruit trees and an incinerator and a heap of dried branches and leaves. Flower beds had been planted along the side fences. The two Bonner boys were in the process of building a hut out of scrap lumber, up against the back fence; they had it almost finished. Both boys worked in their jeans, bare from the waist up, and barefoot. Chic Bonner had taken up a position nearby, on a brick border; he sat with his head down and his eyes almost shut. In the sunlight his head sparkled damply; the remains of his hair had a transparent quality, as if its final day was almost upon him. His scalp had turned pink and spotted, and when he glanced up, Roger saw that his eyebrows, too, were pink. Shading his eyes, Chic squinted at him and then brought out a pair of sunglasses.
“I can’t see a damn thing in this glare,” he said.
“It’s me,” Roger said.
Liz Bonner stirred and sat up. She had been lying stretched out in the grass, in a swimsuit. “Is it that time already?” she murmured. She turned over and rested her weight on her elbows, putting her hands to her cheeks. “Hello, Greggy,” she said. “Come over here for a minute.” When he did so she reached up and took hold of his shirt. “Do you make him wear his shirt? Can’t he take it off?” Sliding to her knees she unbuttoned Gregg’s shirt and tossed it over the brick border at the end of the lawn. “Take off your shoes,” she said to Gregg. “Ask your Daddy if it’s all right.”
“Can I take off my shoes?” Gregg said, returning to him.
“Sure,” he said. “Go ahead.” To Liz and Chic he said, “You people look comfortable.”
Liz sat now with her legs out before her, learning backward on her flattened palms. Bits of grass had stuck to her swimsuit and to her legs and midriff. Her skin was lighter than he remembered. She was stockier than Virginia, and shorter, and her hips seemed to him much more feminine. She really had a good figure, he thought. Like the two boys laboring on their hut, she had taken off as many of her clothes as possible. She looked perfectly natural stretched out on her bath towel; she fit in with the sun and the collie dog and the yard itself.
“Join us,” Liz said.
“What do you mean?” he said.
“Stretch out. Take a nap. Take off your shirt and your shoes.”
“It sounds wonderful,” he said.
Gregg, now wearing just his pants, began to explore the yard. His gyrations carried him closer and closer to the hut in the rear, until at last he began to circle it, not looking in its direction, but nonetheless involving himself with it. The two Bonner boys viewed him with disgust. They continued their building.
“Lindahl,” Chic said, his legs apart, his arms resting on his thighs, “that isn’t a bad-looking store you’ve got. But you don’t have much frontage on the street, do you? It seemed to me your windows, your displays, are awfully small. Maybe I’m wrong. I’ve never known anybody in retail selling. It’s something that’s always intrigued me but I never got into it. That place next to yours has more frontage, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I guess so.”
“You just lease, don’t you?”
“That’s right.”
“What’s your rent run a month?”
“About three hundred.”
“I’ll be darned,” Chic said. “As much as that? Well, you’re in a good location. The store’s deep, isn’t it? I used to be interested in architecture, back when I was going to school; I took a couple of courses—I horsed around with designing. I guess everybody goes through a period like that.” Lifting his head he scrutinized Roger through his dark glasses. “Is there much satisfaction in retail selling? Now, I’d guess dressing the window provides you personally with some satisfaction; I don’t know why, it just seems that way to me. On the other hand, while I was in there I noticed all those old ladies. I’d imagine retail selling involves a certain amount of loss of dignity; anyhow, I’d guess that you feel you’re lowering yourself when you get involved with those old people and their complaints. That’s a guess, too, but I bet I’m right.”
It gave Roger an odd feeling to hear such an accurate report on his situation. The man had a real knack.
“The windows are a lot of fun,” he said guardedly.
“How about the buying? It seems to me there’s the matching of wits, sort of pitting yourself against your jobber. That would appeal to me.”
“That, too,” Roger said.
At that point, Chic appeared to lose interest. He returned to his interior world.
“Gregg,” Roger said. “We’re going to have to get started.” His son had begun tugging at a piece of lumber, wanting to set it up as part of the hut’s roof. Walking in that direction, Roger said to the two Bonner boys, “It’s about time.”
Both boys ignored him; they continued with their labor.
Liz scrambled up from her bath towel and came over beside them. Her bare arms
and shoulders sparkled, and he saw how far down the top of her swimsuit had slipped. Her left breast, full and smooth, was all but exposed. “They’re mad at me,” she said. “Because I’m not going.” She tugged up the strap of her swimsuit.
“Oh,” he said. Obviously the boys were sore at him, too. They pretended neither he nor Gregg was anywhere about. “That’s too bad,” he said, glancing at her, uncertain of himself.
Chic said, “Snap out of it, fellows. Go get dressed and hop into the car.”
“Yes sir,” Walt said in a grumbling voice. He threw down his lumber and shuffled off. Jerry accompanied him.
To her husband, Liz said, “What’ll we do? Is it serious?”
“They’ll get over it,” Chic said.
“Look at it from their point of view,” Liz said. “I don’t blame them.”
Chic said nothing.
“I’m going along,” Liz said.
“They’re old enough to go up without you,” Chic said stolidly. “You manufacture a dependence that doesn’t exist. That’s one reason why this business of splitting up the driving appeals to me. When I was twelve I’d rather have walked the whole distance than show up with my mother. Let them go up a couple of times without you and they’ll get along fine after that.” He turned to Roger. “Isn’t that so?”
“Leave me out of it,” he said.
“Don’t you think a twelve-year-old boy is old enough to go places without his mother?”
The back door slammed; Jerry and Walt reappeared, fully dressed.
“Why do you want your mother along?” Chic asked them.
They muttered and hung their heads.
“Go get in the car,” Chic ordered them. “Sit there until it’s time to go.”
The boys slow-poked off in the direction of the car.
“Let me go this time,” Liz said. “I’ll drive up and Roger can drive going back.”
“You just can’t let those kids out of your sight,” Chic said. “I’m surprised you sent them up there at all.”
“I’ll go change,” Liz said. Snatching up the bath towel she disappeared into the house.
“It gets me down,” Chic said to Roger. “What about Virginia? She impressed me as a sensible woman. She doesn’t coddle your boy, does she?”
“It varies,” he said, not wanting to get into it.
“Just between you and I,” Chic said, “don’t repeat this, but you know, Liz plays it by ear. She has no rules; she treats them according to mood.”
“Come on, Gregg,” Roger said to his son. “Put on your clothes and go get into the car with Jerry and Walter.” Taking his boy by the arm he guided him over to his shirt and shoes and socks. Standing by him he prodded him along, keeping him from stringing it out, and then sent him off along the path by the side of the house.
Chic Bonner said, “You don’t let your tongue wag, do you Lindahl?” He looked at Roger with resigned respect. “I guess if you’re going to operate a business you have to be able to do that.”
Time passed. Neither of them spoke. Finally, from within the house, Liz called, “I’m ready. I guess we can go.”
“Don’t put me on the spot like that,” Roger said to Chic.
“You’re right,” Chic said. He sounded chastened. “I don’t have a sense about things like that. Have a good trip. If the boys give you any trouble, smack them down. You have my permission; otherwise you won’t be able to handle them.”
Going around the side of the house, Roger came out onto the front lawn. Gregg and the two Bonner boys had got into the Oldsmobile; they glared at one another and then all three of them looked out and glared at him. But he did not bother to worry about that. I have other things on my mind, he thought.
The door of the house opened and Liz Bonner came down the path, her coat over her arm, her purse swinging by its strap. She had changed to a starched, striped shirt and flowered skirt. “Are you going to make remarks about my driving?” she said. “Oh, it’s your car,” she said in dismay. “Are we going in your car?”
“Makes it even,” he said.
“Can I drive your car?” Hesitantly, she peeped inside. The three boys stirred somewhat; both Jerry and Walt began to perk up as they realized she would be coming along. “What kind of a shift does it have?”
“Automatic shift,” he said. “You won’t have any trouble.”
“You drive up,” she begged.
“Okay,” he said, holding the car door open for her.
She got in; he slammed the door and walked around to the driver’s side.
Here she is, the voices said in his ear. They no longer hummed; they spoke. But what did it mean? Anything? Nothing? He did not know; he could not tell.
13
Fixing dinner, her hands buried in the egg and mustard and bread and onion and ground beef that would become the meat loaf, Virginia heard a mans steps on the front porch. He’s home, she said to herself. But then the doorbell rang and she underwent a tremor of fright; a vision of highway patrolmen formed before her, notification of the catastrophe in the mountains between Ojai and Los Angeles.
She wiped her hands with a paper towel and ran through the house to open the front door.
On the porch stood Chic Bonner, with a flat packet under his arm. “Hello, Virginia,” he said docilely.
“He’s not back,” she said. “Did something happen?”
“Not that I know of,” Chic said, with his sturdy calm.
“Shouldn’t he be back?”
Raising his arm he held his wristwatch up to the light. “No, not necessarily. Liz usually never got the thing tied up until six or seven.” Lowering his arm he proceeded into the house, a steady moving-forward that brought him deep into the living room. At the coffee table he put down his packet; he removed his coat, and Virginia found herself closing the door and coming after him to accept the coat.
“You startled me,” she said, taken aback by his entry into her house. He seemed to consider himself welcome; he did not go into an explanation or apology, or make any attempt to find out what she was doing, if she had company or if she was busy, or even if she was willing to have him come in and lay down his packet on the table.
“Ahhh,” he said, sinking down on the chair that faced the fireplace. “Say listen,” he said. “Go on with what you’re doing. I can talk while you work.”
“I was fixing dinner,” she said, uncertain as to what she should do.
He accepted her statement. “Go ahead. You know, I think your husband’s smarter than I am. I brought over some stuff I want him to see.” His tone was melancholy.
“Excuse me,” Virginia said. “I’ll go on with what I was doing.” She went into the kitchen and resumed her kneading of the meat loaf ingredients; she poured the milk in and began stirring with a wooden ladle. In the living room Chic Bonner occupied himself with his packet. She could hear him opening it: once she glanced behind her and saw that he had put out a row of manila sheets the length of the table. His approach had a thoroughness and silence to it that reminded her of the activity of provident mammals, those that set about collecting materials for winter. Chic surveyed things and saw where they would be ten years from now. He was unimpressed by the present.
“You have a second?” Chic said.
“Not right now,” she said, adding salt to the meat loaf; she had almost forgotten it.
He entered the kitchen. Immediately his size became evident; just by standing there he made it impossible for her to get from one side of the kitchen to the other. He had planted himself, and now he watched her go about her work.
“Let me ask you,” he said, “if you don’t mind me talking to you while you’re working. What does that store of his gross in a year?”
She did not know. “You’ll have to ask him.”
“I imagine his mark-up runs between twenty-five and forty percent. How many salaries does he pay? Can I assume he draws a regular salary out of the gross—it shows on the books like any other salary, is that right?” br />
“You better ask him,” she said, pushing the meat loaf pan into the oven.
Chic said, “Let’s see. He’s got a repairman. And that salesman. Anybody else?”
“No,” she said.
“He has his bookkeeping done outside?”
“That’s right.”
“Do you ever help out? Say, at Christmas time?”
“I go down at Christmas,” she said. “I answer the phone and wait on people. And he hires a boy to drive the truck and make deliveries.”
He noted that. “It’s actually a small operation. Do you have any idea—just a general idea—what he’s got tied up in it?”
“No,” she said.
After that he merely stood.
“Would you like anything to drink?” she asked.
“All right,” he said.
“What, then? Coffee? Wine? Beer? There’s some Bourbon in the pantry.”
“Beer is fine,” Chic said.
She opened a can of beer and poured him a glass, which he accepted and drank and then put down on the table.
“I wanted to discuss this with you first,” he said. “I want to be certain of his reaction before I broach it with him. He’s the kind of person that could turn it down flat. He makes up his mind and does what he feels is right. And then nobody can change his mind. That’s probably why he’s been able to build up a successful retail business.”
“What do you want to broach with him?”
Chic said, “How do you feel he’d respond to the notion of expanding his place? Come on into the other room, so I can show you my designs. Come on.” He moved off, back into the living room, and she went along, curious and feeling as she did when some powerful insurance salesman began to unlimber his charts and graphs and predictions, his representations of the future.
Here, on the table, Chic had spread out his respectable calculations. She bent down, drying her hands on her apron, and at the sight of the sketches she was dumfounded. The sketches had a professional touch, like illustrations she had noticed in the newspaper from time to time of proposed public buildings. One sketch showed a long, low storefront, a horizontal broken by a perpendicular sign. Another showed a counter arrangement. The big, slow man had a tangible genius.