The Man Whose Teeth Were All Exactly Alike

  Leo grunted. Papers rustled as they turned.

  “Guess who I saw today,” Janet said. She knew, before he spoke, that he would turn and ask who. So she went on, “I had a little talk with a gal who wears sandals and wears her hair even shorter than I do. You once said you could go for her, but I think she’s probably more interested in other women. She holds her cigarette like this.” Reaching towards the ashtray on the coffee table, Janet picked up a long cigarette butt and put it into the corner of her mouth. But the cigarette toppled away; grabbing at it, she discovered that she had let her drink slop. She forgot about the cigarette and began quietly to mop the puddle with a Kleenex from her purse, hoping that Leo had not noticed.

  However, he had. When she went to throw the soggy Kleenex in the wastebasket she realized that he had stopped working and was regarding her with that expressionless gaze.

  “The cigarette was out,” she said. “It didn’t burn anything.” She retrieved the butt from the floor, held it for a moment, and then put it back in the ashtray.

  Suddenly she knew that he was going to say that he didn’t care whether she saw Sherry Dombrosio and talked to her or not. And it was exactly right; he did say it, a fraction of a second later.

  “You can keep your women’s gossip,” Leo said. “Keep it to yourself.”

  “You used to like to hear about her,” she said. “I’ve heard you tell clients about her. What interesting, creative people there are in the area. A woman who makes her own shoes.”

  Turning his head, Leo said, “The conversation probably started with her saying something like. ‘Why did that kike husband of yours dare phone up my husband, that yid real estate broker.’” He studied her without blinking or moving a muscle.

  “Listen,” she said, “you should have been there if you think that. No, I’ll tell you. I started it. You think I just stood idly by while she insulted and abused you.” She felt tears coming to her eyes. “What good does it do?” she said. “You have so little faith in me. You’re a doomed man.”

  “Why?” he said.

  “You have a wife who devotes herself to you without any reward. Do you know what I told Sherry Dombrosio?”

  Leo said, “It’s all over. I called him. I expressed my reaction. He told me to mind my own business.”

  “And he hung up on you,” Janet said. “That unimportant little person. What does he do? Makes cartons for milk. He isn’t fit to lick the ground you walk over.” She got unsteadily up, balancing herself by means of the table, and walked towards the kitchen with her empty glass. Tears ran down her cheeks as she walked. The room swam. Leo, at his desk, seemed to expand, to blur and swell soundlessly. And her shoes made no sound against the floor. Looking down she saw that she did not have them on; she was in her stocking feet. The shoes were on the couch, along with her lighter and pack of Kools.

  “Let’s have dinner,” Leo said, from his desk.

  “I knew you’d say that,” she said. “You want me to serve you. Can’t I emerge as a person, into the light for once? That image you have of me—it’s destructive to me. These pains and disorders I’ve had—you brought them on by your constant pushing me, pushing me. I never can please you; nothing is good enough for you. Fix your own god damn dinner.” Entering the kitchen, she grabbed up the coffee pot and hurled it into the sink. The top flew from it, coffee and grounds spurted everywhere; she saw the drainboard, the wall stained, the dripping black coffee as it leaked to the floor. Part of the pot rolled up nearby, and she kicked it.

  At the doorway, Leo stood watching.

  “Leave me alone,” she said, at once turning her back to him.

  “Can I serve my own dinner?” he said. “To myself? Will you go off out of the way?”

  “Sure,” she said. Taking a pan of peas from the burner she removed the lid and dumped the peas onto the floor; they fell in a shower everywhere, rolling off, bouncing against her bare feet. “Help yourself,” she said.

  “I’ll leave you alone,” he said.

  “Yes,” she said. “Get away. I wish I could kill myself.” Her voice, in her ears, rose higher and higher until she could barely stand it. “Go on,” she shouted at him.

  He said, “I’ll be in the living room.”

  After he had gone, she stood for a moment, taking deep, slow breaths. And then she got the dust pan and broom and began sweeping up the peas. Her head ached violently. What’ll we do about a vegetable? she wondered. What can I serve? Picking up the coffee pot she began to reassemble it. The handle was bent.

  From the living room Leo called, “Look.”

  “What?” she said, holding the coffee pot.

  “Come and look.”

  She came out. He stood by the window. When she reached him he pointed. “What is it?” she said. She saw nothing.

  “That guy weaving along the highway.”

  “Leo,” she said, “I told them what a wonderful and unique person you are. I love you so much. I think so much of you.”

  He glanced at her. Then he moved away, rubbing his forehead. “That guy really must be drunk,” he murmured.

  “You’re one of the finest persons in the world,” she said. “I wish the world could measure up to your ideals. You deserve to live in a better world. You should have better people around you. I try, but I can’t. I can only blurt out how I feel.”

  He nodded, or seemed to nod; it was so slight that she could not be sure.

  “There’s really a good dinner tonight,” she said. “With or without peas. I got a leg of lamb. No wonder you’re champing at the bit. You can smell it. I think it’s almost done.”

  “You better get another package of vegetables,” he said.

  “Yes,” she said. “I will.” As she started back to the kitchen she said, “Do you want to come in and keep me company?”

  “All right,” he said, following after her. Presently he said, “Do I really put that much pressure on you?”

  She sat at the kitchen table, tearing open a package of frozen string beans. “It’s that your standards are so high. Nobody can meet them but you. You can’t expect the rest of us to, Leo.”

  “I can’t see what you mean,” he said. “What standards?”

  “You work so hard. You’re so intense. You get carried away by what you do; you become so completely involved. Everything is a cause for you.” She smiled at him, but he did not smile back. His face remained dark and serious, his forehead wrinkled.

  They heard a sound, then. A roaring motor sound from outside. Both of them started.

  Leo got up and went to the front door. She saw the door open; he went outside and the door shut. The noise of the car died away somewhat, but she could still hear it. She put the beans into the boiling water and then she followed her husband outside onto the porch.

  “It’s that same guy,” Leo said, in the darkness beside her. Below, from the road, they could see headlights, shining up. The car roared.

  “Are you sure?” she said.

  “Yes, he turned up from the highway. At the gas station.” He listened. In the darkness she heard him swear to himself in that determined, terrible way he had.

  “What’s he doing?” she said. “Did he go off the road? Maybe he backed into a drainage ditch.” The noise seemed to stay in one spot. The headlights did not move; they gleamed unalterably up.

  Leo said, “I think the son of a bitch hit some car. Some parked car.”

  “Should we do anything?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said. He turned and went back inside the house.

  When she followed after him she found him at the telephone. He held it aside for a moment. “I’m calling the highway patrol,” he said. “I’m going to report the son of a bitch.”

  “Oh,” she said nervously. “Why don’t you wait? We ought to go down and see what it is—maybe he didn’t hit a car; he may be stuck and trying to get his car back on the road.”

  “A drunk,” he said, staring at her. “A drunken god damn maniac. You saw him rac
ing down the middle of the highway, weaving back—” He broke off. His voice lowered and became dark, controlled. His customary phone voice, the one for emergencies; for him a phone call always meant an emergency. “I want to report a drunk driver,” he said. “This is Leo Runcible, in Carquinez. On White Star Road.” He paused.

  Oh god, she thought. I know it’s one of our neighbors; I know it’s someone we know. She could not bear to hear; turning, she ran out of the house and back onto the porch. The noise, the scream of tires and motor, still went on. Now it ceased and she thought she heard voices, men’s voices from below. And—flashlights?

  He’s stuck in the drainage ditch, she thought. It goes all along the road, all the way down to the bottom. And the road’s so narrow and it twists, and at night even people who live along it have a hard time seeing their way. If he came up even a little too fast, he could get into the ditch so easily.

  Once she had done it herself. What an awful feeling. The poor man or woman. Even if he is drunk. And how does Leo know he’s drunk? Oh, she thought; that’s right—we saw him weaving along the highway. But suppose it’s a different person?

  New headlights, additional lights, came on. She saw, in them, the outline of trees below. And then shiny metal. The side of a car. That’s the stuck car, she thought. “Leo!” she called. “Come here; he is stuck. And they’re pulling him out.”

  The car shuddered as its motor screamed again. She could now see that it had no top. Wrecked? she wondered, pressing her arms around herself to keep warm. No, it was a sports car. Then it must be Walt Dombrosio’s car, she thought.

  “Leo!” she shrieked, running back into the house. He was still on the phone; he waved her away and then slammed the bedroom door. “It’s Walt’s car,” she shouted, opening the door. At the phone, her husband nodded, his face blank as he listened to the phone.

  Did he know? Had he recognized it? By the sound of the motor, perhaps? He has such a keen ear…

  Her husband hung up the phone. “I reported him,” he said.

  “Do you know whose car it is?” she said, gasping.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Did you know before you called?”

  Wooden-faced, he said, “It doesn’t matter whose car it is.”

  “I’ll bet you recognized the motor,” she said. “I remember—you told me one night when some car woke you up. You said you could tell a sports car.”

  Leo said, “Cars go by the office all day long.”

  “What does that mean? Why do you say that?”

  “I’ve seen a lot of accidents. Most of them are caused by drunks.”

  “No,” she said. “You started to say something else.” That you have learned to recognize most of the cars in this area by their sound, she thought. From inside your office. Like a boy’s game.

  “He should be reported,” Leo said. “He’s always hot-rodding around turns in that damn red thing.” Going into the dining-room he seated himself at the table. In a tired, grating voice he said, “Can we eat? Or are you going down the hill and tell Dombrosio that I phoned the highway patrol about him?”

  She stood where she was.

  “Come on,” Leo said.

  At last she came.

  6

  The Carquinez Dads’ and Boys’ Donkey Baseball Club owned a huge old white clapboard building, with turrets and fire escapes, in the center of town. Two palm trees grew in front of it, one on each side of the entrance with its balcony and porch and railing. Several of the rear windows had been broken. In winter the basement filled with water. A discarded rusty red Coca Cola machine lay among weeds to one side. The flagpole, which jutted out from the center of the roof, had been snapped off during a windstorm. The building was ninety-two years old and not worth much. Now and then the CDBDBC rented the building out to local groups for dances or barbecues or raffles. And once the piano teacher from the grammar school had rented it to give a recital of American songs.

  The CDBDBC occasionally used Donkey Hall themselves. Once a year, in July, they sponsored a livestock show, after which they held bingo and sold hot dogs and pop in the building’s basement. In December the men of the club cooked a dinner for their wives, twenty or so men, all wearing fancy chefs caps and gowns, carrying silver trays. Crepe paper hung from the rafters of the hall. Tables, borrowed from the school, were decorated with original drawings, mostly humorous. Most notable of all, on May tenth, came the club’s Project Day. Getting together, they discussed what worthwhile civic move could be undertaken without too much cost. One year they had bought paint and entirely repainted the post office and other public buildings of the town.

  For several years the President of the CDBDBC had been the butcher at the Carquinez Grocery, Jack E. Vepp. His personal hobby was deer hunting, and in 1958 the Club Project, at his suggestion, was a mass deer hunt. Herds of starving deer had, for some time, come down into farmland from the hills in search of food and water; they ate valuable hay, left fleas behind them, got in the path of autos. Home owners complained that deer ate apples off their trees. The deer-hunting project received a lot of popular support, and Jack E. Vepp was re-elected the next year.

  Most of the men in town had been asked, at one time or another, to join the club. An exception to this was a man living on Bass Pool Road who was suspected of being a Communist. The other exception was Leo Runcible.

  In the evening twilight of the Chevron Station, Runcible stood smoking his pipe while he waited for the attendant to finish with his car. For the first time in months the lights of Donkey Hall had been turned on, and the colors glowed out above the streetlights of the town. Cars had begun appearing, parking in front of the Hall. The time was seven-thirty. Looking at his wristwatch, Runcible thought, The meeting is about to begin.

  “Big doings,” he said to the service station attendant. He did not know the boy’s name; he knew that he lived somewhere in the area and that he was taking courses in business administration.

  “Yes sir,” the boy said. He lay partly beneath Runcible’s ’55 Studebaker, still working to cinch up the new radiator hose that he had put on.

  “Do you know what they’re up to?” Runcible asked.

  “Must be the night they organize to pick up all the newspapers in town,” the boy said.

  “That was last month,” Runcible said. “And they do that in the afternoon.”

  Two cars from town turned past the station on their way to the Hall. He watched them go. The town handyman Bill Conley. Then, in the Ford, Keith Asmason, who owned a dairy ranch a few miles north of the town.

  “I’ll have this hose on in a minute, Mr. Runcible,” the boy said. “Sorry to keep you.”

  Runcible thought, That’s all right. I’m not going anywhere tonight. He continued to watch the cars parking at the Hall. A main social event for the area, he thought. If they asked me, would I go? Would I join? Not for a million dollars, he thought.

  The next car was a small red sports car. That’s right, he said to himself. Dombrosio is a member; not only that, an official. He would be. Prove you’re a man by joining all the men’s clubs…be a regular fellow. The sports car turned the corner. He saw, inside it, not one person but two. Sherry Dombrosio was driving; Walt rode beside her.

  “Do they now have women members?” he said to the station attendant.

  The sports car halted at the Hall. The door opened and Walt got out. He shut the door after him; Sherry turned the car around and drove away. Soon she passed the Chevron Station and started to climb back up the road to the Dombrosio house.

  Crouching down, Runcible said, “How come Mrs. Dombrosio drives him to the Hall?”

  The attendant said, “You didn’t read in the paper about his license?”

  “No,” Runcible said. He was barely on speaking terms with the couple who ran the Carquinez News; he had long ago ceased reading it. To him the little four-page newspaper was a place to put ads, and nothing more.

  The boy slid out from beneath the car and sat up. “Did yo
u know they got Mr. Dombrosio on a drunk driving charge the month before last? Right here in town?”

  “Yes,” Runcible said. “I heard about it.”

  “The Motor Vehicles Department revoked his license.”

  “No!” he said.

  The boy nodded.

  “They can do that?”

  “Sure,” the boy said. “It’s part of their crackdown program on drunk drivers. They suspended his license for six months. So he has to be driven around by his wife.”

  Runcible said, “But the guy works in San Francisco.”

  “That don’t mean nothing to the Motor Vehicles Department. They’re really tough.”

  “How does he get to work?”

  “She’s been driving him,” the boy said.

  “Does she make two trips a day?” It did not seem possible.

  “No,” the boy said, scrambling to his feet. “She stays in the City. Your car’s ready; I got the hose on okay.”

  “That’s sure lousy luck,” Runcible said, as the boy made out the tag. “Losing his license when he has to commute to San Francisco.”

  “Really tough,” the boy said. “But mostly on his wife. In a way he’s got it soft; he gets a chauffeur.”

  “But anywhere he wants to go, she has to take him.”

  “That’s right,” the boy said. “Unless he wants to break the law. And if he should get caught, they’d never give him a license again the rest of his life.”

  “It wouldn’t be worth it,” Runcible said.

  “No,” the boy said. “I guess not.”

  And I’ll bet he blames me, Runcible thought as he drove up the hill towards his home. But perhaps Dombrosio had never found out who had called the highway patrol. But he must know that normally police cars are never in the area except on weekends.

  Am I supposed to feel guilty? he asked himself. Ashamed because the slob didn’t have any better sense than to drink and drive? My god, they yell at you every time you turn on the radio: if you drink don’t drive, and if you drive don’t drink. He’s got nobody to blame but himself; he has to take the responsibility for his own actions.