Janet said, “Isn’t it true that—” She hesitated. “You never ought to go into business with friends, I’ve heard.”
“Why?” he said.
“Because business destroys the friendship.”
“Why?”
Haltingly, she said, “Because—isn’t there a conflict? The same thing applies when a man and wife try to operate a business together. Look what happened to us in ’57.” That had been the year in which she had tried to work down at Runcible Realty. “It’s the same when a husband tries to teach his wife to drive.” Her voice trailed off and she smiled at him hopefully.
“Why are you really going to bed?” he said, in a tone of voice that insisted on a truthful and complete answer.
Janet said, “You know it always makes me feel dreadful to sit in the same room with Paul and Phyllis after what happened that time.” Her voice was so low that he could barely hear her; he had to lean towards her, as if, he thought, he were some deaf old farmer. “That horrible game,” she said. “That charades.”
How like his wife to dwell on that. A few months ago the four of them had been at a party in San Anselmo together, at the home of a business contact. Janet had drunk too much, and when it came time for her to act out her book title, she had stood foolish and mute, flapping her arms, appealing to her team in an embarrassing, senseless fashion until finally time had run out and she had slunk to her chair.
“Nobody remembers that but you,” he said.
Janet said, “I still ask myself. Even if I was sober, even if I had weeks to prepare—I still wonder how you act out Roget’s Thesaurus.” She gazed at him helplessly.
“You row,” he said. “Then you indicate the letter J.”
“But what then?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “But I can tell you this. If you go to bed, if you aren’t here to greet the Wilbys, I’ll make it tough for you the rest of your life.”
There was a silence, then.
Hanging her head she murmured, “I’ll stay up for a while. But I really honest to god don’t feel well. I think I’m getting that flu again. There’s the same pain here that I had before.” She ran her hand over her waist.
Seeing her expression, the concern in her eyes, he knew that she would stay up. She was afraid to desert him. As much as she yearned to go to bed, to lie covered up and warm, reading her book and eating an artichoke with lemon and butter sauce, she would remain in the living room, chatting, being an appropriate wife and hostess.
“You can discuss your book with Phyllis,” he said.
Drawing herself up she said, “Phyllis Wilby reads nothing but confession magazines in beauty shops. There isn’t anybody any more who reads good books but me.” For a moment she faced him defiantly. Then, by degrees, she resumed the clearing of the table.
Pathetic, he thought. She calls that pornographic rubbish from the book club “good books.” It’s really the dregs, lying in bed eating boiled artichoke and reading about old men screwing little girls. And it’s women like her who keep those book clubs in business, he thought. Getting their kicks second hand, out of books.
Going to the living room window, he stationed himself with his hands in his pockets, looking down the hillside towards the road. A light here and there permitted him to locate other houses in the darkness. When they turned off the highway and up the driveway their headlights would light up the living room; the angle was quite steep. And Paul always took a long time parking, so that he could be sure of being able to get out again. Sometimes when he left he was too tight to do much backing and filling.
“Can they afford the McGuffey house?” Janet asked, from the kitchen.
“Listen,” he said, “Paul can afford anything.”
“But it would be so large. And just the two of them, no children…and all those bedrooms. Three floors!”
“The McGuffey house,” he said, “is the finest house in the area. At any price.”
“Oh,” she said, “what about Marston’s place?”
“Are you going to say that when Paul and Phyllis come?”
“I think you better wait and see what they say after they see the house,” Janet said. “I know they’ll say it’s too large.”
“They have seen it,” he said. “And it’s not too large. They need room for guests.”
She came from the kitchen. “When did you show it to them?”
“Last month.”
“How much did you quote them?”
“Thirty-two.”
“But,” she said, “you told me McGuffey wants forty-two.”
“I don’t care what that old fart wants.”
Janet said, “You’re his broker. You agreed to—”
Interrupting, he said, “I agreed to get the best price for his place possible. Well, he can’t get forty-two. He’s too damn greedy. He has no idea what the market will bear. That’s my job to know.”
“How long have you had the listing?”
He conceded, “A month.”
“And you’re already coming down ten thousand?” She came around to face him. “Would you quote that price to someone who wasn’t a friend of yours? Just—someone who showed up and wanted to see the property?”
He shrugged.
“That’s wrong,” she said. “You have an exclusive on that, for three months.”
“Four.”
“McGuffey can’t sell except through you. And you’re going to sell it to a friend of yours for far less than—”
“Do I tell you how to make sauce?” he said, with difficulty. “Do I tell you what kind of soap powder to buy?”
“You shit,” she said. “You wicked shit.”
“Why?” he said, taken aback.
Without answering, she returned to the kitchen. Dishes clattered. He heard her speaking sharply to Jerome, who was in his room watching TV.
Ten minutes later, headlights flashed up at him. The Wilbys had arrived. He switched on the porch light and went to open the door.
As big Paul Wilby came up the steps, guiding his wife, Runcible saw that the man was frowning. Both Paul and Phyllis seemed withdrawn, hardly noticing him. They murmured together.
“Greetings,” Runcible said.
“Hi, Leo,” Paul said, extending his strong hand. They shook, while Phyllis, greeted by Janet, passed on inside the house.
“What’s the matter, Paul?” Runcible said.
Wilby shut the door after him. He walked towards his wife, took her coat, and then carried it to the closet. “Nothing,” he said. And then, turning his head, he said, “Leo, are there any colored people living up here?”
“No,” Runcible said. “None.”
“You sure?” Paul said.
Beside him, Phyllis said, “Could any have moved in recently, Leo? That you wouldn’t know about?”
“No,” he said. “Tell me why you ask.”
Paul seated himself on the couch and placed his hands on his knees. “Driving up your hill,” he said, “you know that house on the right with the lattice work and the trees?”
Janet said, “That would be the Dombrosio house.”
“I know,” Runcible said. “I know what house that is. Well? So?”
Continuing, Paul said, “The porch light was on, and we saw a colored fellow on the porch.”
“There was no doubt about it,” Phyllis said. “We went very slow to be sure.”
“What then?” Runcible said.
“He went in,” Phyllis said. “Then we drove on.”
“One of those moon-faced boys,” Paul said. “You know what I mean—real coal black and shiny.”
“The Dombrosios couldn’t have sold their house,” Janet said. “Could they?” To her husband she said, “You’d know right away.” To Paul and Phyllis she said, “Leo always knows those things.”
Runcible started to speak. But something seemed to be wrong with his tongue. It had become thick; it filled his mouth. He cleared his throat and rubbed his hands together, instead. The three of the
m were looking at him, his wife and the Wilbys.
“I can tell you,” he said, and his voice came out hoarse and phlegm-filled, “that on my word of honor there are no Negroes living here in the area.”
“Was he visiting the Dombrosios?” Janet said.
“Possibly,” Runcible said, nodding. “Possibly he was a repair man of some sort. Possibly he was a friend of theirs visiting.”
“I doubt that,” Janet said. “They wouldn’t have a Negro visit them.”
Runcible saw only her; he saw neither the Wilbys nor the room with the things in it, his living room. “You doubt that?” he said. “I want to know why you doubt that. Don’t tell me.” He raised his hand at her. “I don’t want to know. Paul,” he said to Wilby, “I can swear to you that this is a really good place to bring up your kids. Nobody here would have Negroes visiting them and if anybody sold to Negroes, then—” He broke off, winded. His heart labored. “The same goes for Jews,” he said. “You won’t find any Jews here to dirty up your streets. I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you move here?”
They stared at him speechlessly.
“Are you a Nazi?” Runcible said. “You want to start up Dachau again, or something?”
They looked at him as if he had gone mad, as if he were foaming at the mouth. Involuntarily, he put his hand up, the back of his hand, and rubbed his lower lip.
“Say,” Paul Wilby said. His face gradually flushed. “Don’t you get up on your high horse with me. I’ve just driven forty miles, but I’ll be happy to turn around and drive back if that’s what you want.”
“You can’t stay here anyhow,” Runcible said. “In the house of a Jew.”
“Jew, smew,” Phyllis said. “Get off it, Leo.”
Janet said, “Dear—”
“I suppose you’re not interested in the McGuffey place,” Runcible said to the Wilbys, “now that you caught sight of a dark face.”
“Oh hell,” Paul said loudly. “I just asked if there were any coloreds in town. Isn’t that what I asked? Is that so out of line? And like always, you’re right up there on your god damn soap box—”
“I’m not up on a soap box,” Runcible said.
“The hell you aren’t.”
Runcible said, “I wouldn’t sell you the McGuffey place, and I’ll tell you why. I’ll be glad to tell you why. I’ve had all I can take of Fascism; I fought it and practically gave my life for it; I mean, in the cause to wipe it from the earth.” He felt his ears glow and burn. Phyllis laughed a little short high-pitched laugh. Now his voice rose in volume; he was shouting at them. “While you were making big money from the war I was out giving my life. Well, I’ll tell you what you can do with your money. Yes, I will tell you.”
Her voice sharp, Phyllis Wilby said, “How dare you speak to my husband like that.”
“In World War Two I was fighting in France,” Wilby said, his face dark, his mouth trembling.
“Let’s go,” Phyllis said, going towards the door.
“Don’t forget your coat,” Runcible said, going towards the closet. “Here.” He held out their two coats in a lump.
To Janet, Phyllis said, “Has he been drinking?”
Janet said, “My husband has not been drinking.” She took one of the coats, gave it to Phyllis, and the other to Paul. “I wish you would leave,” she said.
“You, too?” Paul said, dumbfounded in his slow way. “My god, not one of them but two of them.” He shook his head. “We came all the way out here to be insulted by a couple of nuts.”
Phyllis Wilby had already opened the door and gone out onto the porch. She waited, her back to the house, for her husband to follow, calling, “Come on—it’s a waste of our time. A complete waste.”
“Good night,” Janet said, in a frozen, formal voice. She guided Paul Wilby to the door; he protested, trying to remain in the room, but she forcibly placed him outside, on the porch, and pulled the door in, blocking him off. “Good night,” she repeated, in an almost merry tone. Smiling, she shut the door. Then she turned to Runcible. He saw the stark, determined expression on her face. In the same merry tone she said, “Well, that was a surprise. What a surprise.”
“Yes,” he said, nodding.
They stood silently. After a moment they heard Paul Wilby’s footsteps as he went down the porch stairs, and then the sound of car doors, and finally a motor starting up. The car drove off down the driveway, and then there was no sound at all. Nothing but the refrigerator in the kitchen.
“Wow,” Runcible said. “You never know what the next moment is going to bring.”
His wife’s expression faded and became dull. The tenacity had gone. It had endured for the situation only. He saw timidity in its place, awareness of what the consequences might be. Consequences…the loss of a sale, loss of a long-time friend…
“Here I go reaming you out about treating them politely when they come,” he said, “and then look what I go and do.”
Janet said, “Do you think they really did see a Negro?”
“Sure,” he said. “It would be just like that horse’s ass Dombrosio to throw an inter-racial party at this place.”
“But I know Sherry very well,” Janet said, “and we’ve talked about Marin City and the Negroes, and the influx into Marin County, and I know how she feels; I know she wouldn’t let something like that happen. She’d be too conscious of the feelings of the other people up here.”
“I’m going to give him a call,” Runcible said. Going into the bedroom he seated himself on the bed and got out the Marin County phone book.
“What are you going to say?” Janet said, appearing.
“I’m going to tell him what he did,” Runcible said. “By bringing a Negro up here. He not only cost me a sale but he ruined a deeply-desirable ten-year friendship. I’ll tell him; he ought to know.”
He began to dial.
4
Along the early-morning road Sherry Dombrosio walked, her hands in the pockets of her blue suede leather jacket. Since she had on sandals she avoided kicking stones. The slightly chilly wind riffled her skirt, the long dark one with the hand-printed pattern done by an artist-friend in Sausalito. The sandals, too, were handmade; she had made them herself several years ago. She still had leather-working tools, and at Christmas turned out a few belts and purses and wallets as gifts for their most personal friends.
To her right, pasture land fell away into a canyon of trees. A young calf grazed, dun-colored, square, his pink wet nose shining as it coasted over the grass. She saw, far overhead, a hawk or a buzzard; she could not tell which, not until the sun shone through its wings and she caught the characteristic red of the hawk’s feathers. Now and then, in the past, she had seen a blue heron sometimes in the early morning, but today she did not; the oak in which it lived held only the sloppy nest, nothing more. The heron had flapped up to the Bolinas lagoon to spend the day.
At the turn of the road she stepped from the gravel pavement to let a pickup truck pass on its way to town.
It would have given her a lift, she reflected, if she had made any sign. Mr. Grimaldi had been at the wheel, a retired mining engineer who lived up at the end of their road. He was very circumspect about offering her rides; on rainy days, if she was slogging down the road to town in her yellow slicker and rain hat and boots, he always stopped whether she waved or not, but on sunny days like this he knew that she enjoyed walking. On the trip back up, however, when she was loaded with groceries, she liked a ride, in any sort of weather.
Her sandals crunched gravel as she returned to the road. At the right Mrs. Pestolesi’s house with its pampas grass waving in front. Then the steep slope, and, at the bottom, the Chevron Station where this minor county road joined the state highway.
The wind stirred by her, causing the shaky-grass at the edge of the pavement to vibrate in its peculiar way. Stooping, she broke off a sprig of the grass; it continued to vibrate as she carried it. Like little wires, she thought. A toy plant from Hong Kong, but not too successfu
l from the color standpoint. It occurred to her that she could dry the grass, dip it in a mayonnaise jar of water color, perhaps use a variety as decoration around the house…she had already experimented with the coloring of different local weeds; some came out novel and even stunning, their delicacy and intricacy impossible to duplicate artificially. The color brought out what was already there unnoticed.
If I had any sense, she thought, I’d set up my easel along this road; I’d paint that Chevron Station, the hill behind it, the rim of the lagoon. But if I did—like any other landscape by a Sunday painter. A Winston Churchill, and not even original.
If nature stirs you, she thought, you’re not an artist; you’re merely sentimental. So she strode on, long-legged, down the hill.
Carquinez put in its appearance below, eleven stores in a row, five on the left side of the highway, six on the right, the feed store dominating. And it was to the feed store that she intended to go; she had pet bantam chickens.
The sound of a car behind her caused her to step from the road once more. A gray sedan which she recognized as the Runcibles’ passed her; she saw Janet Runcible behind the wheel, her eyes fixed straight ahead, sitting stiffly as always, like a little old lady. Gray car, gray person, Sherry thought. And it would never occur to either of them to give anybody a lift: Leo Runcible generally sailed by anyone on foot, aloof as a statue, barely even nodding.
But now the gray sedan slowed and stopped.
For me? Sherry thought. She continued at the same pace, not acknowledging the car, until at last she came up to the front seat and the driver. The window was rolled down, and Janet Runcible now turned her head and leaned out. But she did not open the door.
“I saw you walking along,” Janet said. Her drab face was unusually drawn this morning, and Sherry decided that this constituted a morning after. “You know, being the only Realtor in the area, Leo has to think and act from two standpoints. As an individual person and as the town. He has to represent them.”