The massive jaw moved. Walter Dombrosio set himself; he half-shut his eyes and stopped his breathing. Beside him his wife did the same.
The boy said, “I-I-I—” He broke off. “F-f-f-f—” he said, and the sounds sputtered away; saliva dribbled, and at once Miss Thackman, with no sign of emotion, produced a Kleenex and wiped the boy’s chin.
Sherry said, “He can do better when he’s alone with us.”
“Fine,” Miss Thackman boomed. “Well, Jimmy,” she said, clapping her hands to his shoulders and rising from her chair. “Do you want to go down now and meet the other children? And play?”
The boy’s eyes glowed. He spluttered; no words came, only hoarse sounds, wet and muffled. But the desire was obvious. Miss Thackman, smiling, took his hand and led him carefully towards the door of the office; she did not hurry him, but let him come at his own pace.
As the boy passed in front of Walt Dombrosio, he thought to himself, There he goes. Off to be taken care of, to be given trained care. Professional care. By competent, sympathetic people. As he will be for the rest of his life, probably. It’s too soon to know, he thought. We’ll know—we’ll all know—in a few more years.
The profile, he thought as he saw his son’s jaw moving; the boy was still trying to speak. Exactly the way I produced it. The way I carved and molded and cut, down in the basement of the Hall. All that work. All the research. I got what I wanted, though; I got it perfect. Accurate, complete. Authentic.
After Miss Thackman and their son had left the room, he and Sherry sat without speaking. At last she said in a jerky, strained voice, “What are we supposed to do, I wonder? Sit? Wait?”
“I guess so,” he said.
“It’s almost too much for me,” she said.
“We’ll be going back home in a few minutes,” he said.
“To see her leading him off,” she said.
“I know,” he said, aloud.
“What?” Sherry said, standing at the window of their living room.
At once he was out of his thoughts, his imagination; he saw her standing with her hands resting on her enormous belly, her eyebrow raised with curiosity.
“You know what?” she said. “You scare me when you sit in your chair like that—I know you don’t even see me; you’re not aware of me. What am I supposed to do while you read the paper and make up letters to the editor, or whatever you’re doing? My god.” She crossed the room towards him. “You’re like some eighty year old senile man, snoring away after dinner.”
He heard her, but he paid no attention; her tone and her words did not matter to him.
“Stop looking at my big fat stomach,” she said. “It makes me uneasy. I wish I had my old figure back—god, how I will be so glad when this is over and I can wear some of my clothes again.”
Did I see right? he asked himself. Did I see what’s ahead for us, the vengeance waiting for us in another four months? Or is it just a guilt-ridden fear on our parts? Maybe there is no Miss Thackman, he thought. There will be no special school, no Cyclone fence, no old oak desk. None of it. Our little boy will run without falling, yell like the other kids, figure out how to put together his five-cent balsawood glider and then fly it—fly the hell out of it, all day long, until we have to drag him in for dinner.
We’ll see, he thought. We’ll have to wait and see.
Off in a corner of the living room, away from the other guests and noise, Bob Leghorn discussed topics of importance with his real estate broker Leo Runcible.
“What I feel,” Leghorn said, holding his drink but not sipping it, “is that there is no cheap source of power here. No industry will move in because look at the electricity rates. They’re prohibitive. And transportation in with their products to market is out of the question. Over that mountain. They’d have to level it.”
Studying the younger man, Runcible said, “You’re new here. Let me bring you in on something. Sure there’s cheap power here.” He pointed his finger at Leghorn. “Have you turned on a water tap at your house, yet? Have you noticed what comes out?”
“Sure,” Leghorn said. “Good clean water.”
“There’s plenty of good clean water,” Runcible said. “That’s power, basic cheap power. The historic source of power for the entire civilized world, for centuries. Don’t worry about power in this area.”
Leghorn said, “Somebody told me you own the water company.”
“This is true,” Runcible said.
“How’d you ever happen to buy into a water company? Is it a paying proposition?”
Runcible said nothing.
“I suppose it pays in the summer,” Leghorn said. “Not in the winter, when it rains. I think though you’re mistaken when you regard water in terms of power. Of course, I don’t know a hell of a lot about it directly, but I think because you own a water company you maybe tend to be biased. If water is to be a source of power it has to be used as a source of electrical power. Nobody uses water directly any more; that was in the old days when they had water wheels, like in the old water-powered mills.” He laughed. “No, not unless somebody builds a dam, one of those hydroelectric plants out here. And they’re not much likely to do that.”
“Excuse me,” Runcible said. He got to his feet and moved away; he joined another group, leaving Leghorn by himself.
“What is this, Leo?” a male guest asked, pointing to a black, plate-shaped metal object on the wall. “Not a French World War One helmet, is it?”
“No,” Runcible said. Going over, he lifted the helmet down. “This is from the time of Oliver Cromwell,” he said. “Don’t you see the round head? Try it on.” He handed it to the man, who placed it gingerly on his head. Guests gathered to comment.
“How much is it worth?” a woman guest asked.
“About two hundred bucks,” Runcible said. “Not much.”
A guest said, “Leo, why don’t you sell it and put the dough into your water company?”
They all laughed, then, Runcible in particular. He grinned, stuck his hands in his pockets, nodded to them. “That’s no joke,” he said. But his good-humored tone said that it was a joke, and a good one. “You know what I’m thinking of doing?” he said. “I’m thinking of offering a share of stock in the Carquinez Water Improvement Company, free, to everyone who buys a house from Runcible Realty.”
“Better yet,” a guest said. “Offer a house free to everyone who buys a share in the water company.”
At that Runcible laughed so hard that he had to excuse himself; he left the living room and went into the kitchen.
There, he found his wife and Mrs. Leghorn.
Martha Leghorn, standing up, said to him, “Mr. Runcible, your wife was just telling me how you put all your money and property and everything you owned, and how you mortgaged yourself up to the hilt, to improve the water supply, here. She tells me you’ve gone into debt for years to come.”
Runcible said, “How about a drink?”
“No, thanks,” Mrs. Leghorn said. “My husband is very strict. He doesn’t like me to drink.”
Turning to Janet, Runcible said. “You already have yours, I see.” He watched her as she filled her glass from the great jug. “Be careful,” he said, as she let the glass slip slightly; the colorless liquid spilled down from her wrist, onto the tabletop.
Janet said to him, her eyes shining, “Leo, if these people knew how great you are. How you saved them. Why don’t they recognize it?” She gazed at him helplessly, barely able to hold onto her glass; it seemed to him as if she were about to pitch forward onto her face, and he took a step towards her. Mrs. Leghorn had reseated herself at the table. She watched silently.
“That reminds me of a joke,” Leo Runcible said, taking hold of his wife’s hand and unfastening her fingers from the stem of her glass. He placed the glass on the table, far back from the edge. To Mrs. Leghorn he said, “I hope you don’t find that your friends consider this too far to drive, Mrs. Leghorn. Your Bay Area friends.”
“Some come o
ut,” Mrs. Leghorn said.
“For those who’ve never been out here before,” Runcible said, “it must be quite an experience, our ocean and, beaches and seafood and the Ridge. The wild animals. The unspoiled land.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Leghorn said. “They’re usually quite impressed. It’s really lovely out here. I was so pleased when my husband was transferred here from Hayward.”
“The smog is a literal murderer,” Runcible said. “In those overcrowded cities. Car exhausts and factory smoke. This is like a paradise, just on that account alone.”
He fixed himself a fresh drink. His wife was still watching him with that moronic, witless look; he had become so used to it that it did not even bother him any more. At least she was still on her feet. Christmas time always cheered her up; it had always been a big day in her childhood, she had told him.
Raising his glass to Mrs. Leghorn, Runcible said, “Well, happy Chanukah’s.”
“What is that?” she said.
“Didn’t you know this is Chanukah? It falls on Christmas day this year for the first time in a century. The Jewish holiday.”
“Oh, I see,” she said. “Are you and your wife Jewish?”
“I am,” Runcible said.
“Are there very many Jewish people in this area?” Mrs. Leghorn asked.
“No,” Runcible said. “Most of the land belongs to the big dairy ranchers, and except for one or two of them they don’t have a religion; all they have is a desire to keep taxes down and as little improvement in this area as is possible.”
Pulling back a chair he seated himself across from her, with the idea of telling her about the ranchers. He intended to give her the full story. Not only was she not stewed, like most of the others, but she seemed intelligent and interested. And she was new to the area. He always gave new people the background; it was part of his job.
“Are these things so important?” she interrupted, almost at once. He had barely got started. “I mean, is this what people here take seriously? All this about school bonds and road improvement and—” She gestured. “Isn’t there anything really significant going on?”
“Like what?” he said.
Mrs. Leghorn said, “Little theater groups, or a dance group? You told us this was a vital growing area; I thought there’d be something cultural. I mean, I’m stuck here all day long.” She gazed at him and Janet with distress. “Doesn’t anyone even play bridge up here?”
“Of course,” Janet said, smiling. “And there’s a creative dance group up at Point Reyes Station, just up the highway.” Seating herself between him and Mrs. Leghorn, she began to ramble on; he excused himself and left the kitchen.
Going into the bathroom he put his glass down on the edge of the washbowl and then he relieved himself. Strange, he thought. That every few hours a man has to go and unbutton his pants and pour out a stream of waste fluid that has collected inside him. If you hadn’t seen it you wouldn’t believe it. He buttoned his pants back up, washed his hands, and, with his glass, left the bathroom.
Maybe that’s all man is to God, he thought. What that stream is to me. No matter what we do—it isn’t important.
He went into his study and shut the door. For a time he sat at his desk, smoking a Christmas cigar that someone had brought him. But then he noticed the half-finished letter still in the typewriter. It was to the bank at Petaluma requesting refinancing on his house. He had tried to get them on the phone with no luck. So here this letter was. He asked for a conference about it, at the very least. He told them candidly that he could not meet the present payments. The letter was dated December 12th, and he had not yet finished and sent it.
The bastards will say no, he said to himself. He got to his feet and moved away from the desk, so that he did not have to look at the letter. That’s the trouble with living in the country. Everyone knows the state of your finances; you can’t keep it secret. And there’s nothing more destructive to credit, he thought, then having your finances an open book.
The god damn banks, he thought. When you get low or you’re overdrawn or you try to swing a loan, they tell everyone. Within half an hour it’s to all the big people in the area, everyone you’re trying to do any business with. You go to meet a man about buying or selling some land, and he knows exactly how much you have to back you up. What kind of hand is that? he asked himself. How can you play from that kind of position? And then my god damn wife. On top of that.
While he was meditating about that, the door to the study opened. There stood Michael Wharton. “Merry Christmas, Leo,” he said at once. “Am I bothering you? Janet said you were in here.”
Not speaking directly to him, Runcible said, “What did she do, put all you guys on the guest list?”
“You shouldn’t still be sore,” Wharton said. “You can’t be sore forever, can you?” He seemed nervous and embarrassed.
Runcible said, “Sure I can. I don’t advertise in that crummy little newspaper and I take any sick animal I have up to Point Reyes, and if there was another school I’d send my son there.”
After a pause Wharton said self-consciously, “This is a good time of year to give up grudges.”
“Christmas, schmishmas,” Runcible said. “Listen, Christmas is a venture by a bunch of fink shopkeepers to do more business.”
Wharton said, “Somebody told me you sold all that land you had, on the Ridge.”
“That’s right,” Runcible said.
“Wasn’t that what you were holding to sub-divide later on?”
He shrugged.
Wharton said, “How much did it cost?”
“Did what cost?”
“Everything. Buying the water company. Fixing it up.”
“Who knows,” Runcible said.
“And you say Christmas, schmishmas,” Wharton said.
“Sure I do,” Runcible said. “Listen, He was a good Jewish boy but He didn’t know when to quit.” He didn’t know when the quitting was best, he said to himself. He went on too long, and look where it got Him. “Listen,” he said, “do you think God gives a shit about us and what happens to us?”
Wharton said, “Well, my own personal opinion is that religion is a past issue. A dead issue.”
“Just what I’d expect from a goy,” Runcible said. “No faith. You ought to read that new Hermann Wouk book about what God is to him. It would do you good. Here.” Going to the bookcase he reached up and took the heavy volume down. “I’m not finished with it,” he said, taking out his marker. “But you need it more than I do. If you’re going to mold the minds of youth, you ought to have some principles. Something to live by.” He held the book out to Wharton, until at last the grammar school teacher accepted it.
“Did any of the big ranchers ever come in?” Wharton said.
“Sure.”
“Who?”
With reluctance, he said, “Oh, I don’t know. Some. I forget.”
There was silence.
“I wonder,” Wharton said finally, “what it would be like for you, now. If they had come in.”
“Listen,” Runcible said. “Who needs them?”
“You knew they wouldn’t come in,” Wharton said. “From the start. You know how their minds work; all they care about is keeping taxes down, saving a little money.”
“They’re good people,” Runcible said.
“They could have underwritten the cost of the water company,” Wharton said, “and never even missed it. Never even have known.”
“Man proposes,” Runcible said. “God disposes.”
“Is there anything I can do?” Wharton said awkwardly.
“You have thirty-five thousand in cash?”
“No.”
“Merry Christmas,” Runcible said.
Wharton said, “You did a really great thing, rebuilding the water supply. Even if that business about the chupper jaw is ninety per cent the superstition of rustic back-country farm people, there’s still all those virus infections and colds that—”
“Listen,??
? Runcible said. “If you don’t have the money, go home. Will you? Okay?”
Wharton lingered. “Strange,” he said. “You’d put everything you have into that water company; you’d bankrupt yourself, lose all your land and assets for the good of the community—and yet, after doing a thing like that you’d still carry on your grudge against me and Sheriff Christen and Faulk and god knows who else. You must not be speaking to half the people in this community. I can’t make you out, Leo.”
“I’m a man of principle,” Runcible said. He walked to the door of the study and opened it. “And one of my principles is that I only invite people I like to my house.” As long as it is my house, he thought to himself. As long as I can keep it mine. After that, you can all come in. “Wait until the Petaluma Bank takes this place,” he said. “Then you guys can come over and sit down on the sofa all you want. Meanwhile,” he said, ushering Wharton out of his study, “as Sam Goldwyn says, ‘Include me out.’”
Seeing the two of them, Janet came forward. “I knew you two would get together,” she said, smiling at her husband.
Runcible said, “Pour this person a glass of cooking sherry and then send him home.” He added. “A small glass.”
Her expression showed that she thought he was kidding; that it was a friendly joke.
“I mean it,” he said to her.
Now she saw that he did mean it. Her smile dwindled away; she darted a glance of confusion at Wharton, then back at her husband.
“I’m going,” Wharton said. “Good night, Janet. Leo.”
Runcible said nothing. Presently Wharton made his way off, among the people; the front door opened and shut, and he had gone.
“Anybody else on your guest list?” Runcible said. “What about Walt Dombrosio?”
Faltering, she said, “No, of course not. I didn’t invite him, Leo. I mean Wharton. Or Dombrosio.”
“Okay,” he said. He walked back to where Bob Leghorn sat; he took a seat opposite him and said, “How’s it going, Leghorn?”
“Fine, thanks,” Leghorn said.
Leaning back, making himself comfortable, Leo Runcible said, “Let me know if there’s anything I can do for you.” He pointed to the table of hors d’oeuvre over in the corner, the cheese and ham and chicken and dip, the various kinds of crackers. “Don’t forget to pitch in,” he said. “Make yourself at home. Don’t hold back.”