Part 21 (1/2)
”Well, what's the matter with Oliver? Oh, I know he's a crusty sort of a nut case, but his heart's in the right place. We can trust him to protect the town against commercial development, if we can trust anybody.”
”Oh, well, I suppose that's right. But what about”a”Marjorie lowered her voicea””Oliver's drinking problem?”
”His what?”
”Didn't you know?” Marjorie's tone expressed her sorrow. ”The poor man, he's been an alcoholic for years.”
”An alcoholic? Oliver Fry? No kidding? Good heavens, I had no idea.”
And then Irma met Granger Pond in her yoga cla.s.s, and she pa.s.sed on the news on the way to the parking lot. And of course Granger told his wife.
Thus the news flitted around town at high speed. It did not need to be typed up and copied and folded and stuffed into envelopes and sent out in a town mailing to six thousand households.
It didn't matter that no one had ever seen Oliver Fry intoxicated. The merest hint that he had a drinking problem was enough to condemn him. It was so easy to imagine him in a sodden condition, his speech slurred, his head lolling, his eyes half-closed, his hand clutching a bottle.
Hope Fry was surprised to find herself the recipient of little sympathetic pats and embraces. ”My dear,” said Marjorie Bland, running into her in the Star Market, ”have you thought of AA?”
”AA?” said Hope, confused. ”You mean in case I have a flat tire?”
”A flat tire?” They parted, mutually bewildered.
The wildfire spread of the rumor did much to promote the candidacy of Roger Bland for the empty place on the Concord Board of Selectmen. Roger's bid to become one of Harvard's overseers was not so easily handled.
Those candidates were far more formidable than Oliver Fry. They were leaders of the nation. Roger labored over his personal history, the short paragraph of biographical information that was to accompany his picture on the ballot. Should he mention that he had been active in the election campaign of a recent Republican governor of Ma.s.sachusetts? Or would that turn off all the Democratic alums? Better say nothing about it. How about his term as director of the Concord Country Club? No, strike that. Well, what the h.e.l.l could he say?
Roger quailed at the thought of all the thousands and thousands of alumni and alumnae who would read his words of self-praise, detecting the hollowness of his claim on the one hand and the strength of his desire on the other.
*45*
Our relation was one long tragedy... a”Journal, March 4, 1856 Given enough time, the essential quality of a man or woman reveals itself. Presidents fail because one ma.s.sive flaw works its way to the surface and stands revealed. Marriages reduce themselves to the clash of defects unguessed at in the beginning.
The married life of Pete and Charlotte Harris suffered from Pete's total lack of imagination and Charlotte's stubborn refusal to bend. She would not, she could not, accommodate herself. This evening, while Pete watched his favorite game show, Charlotte turned her back on him and read the Concord Journal. Tight-lipped, she examined the front page. She learned about the selectman's race, she read the letters to the editor, she looked with horror at the prices of real estate, she examined the police log: VAGRANTS: Milldam shopkeepers report vagrants occupying the sidewalk. Warnings have been issued, but so far there have been no arrests.
When Pete switched off the television set, Charlotte put down the paper with relief. It was time for the night s.h.i.+ft in the kitchen of Emerson Hospital. Behind her she could hear the starched rustle of his white cook's jacket as he heaved himself into it.
Rebellion started up in Charlotte's breast. ”I won't,” she said.
”You won't what, baby doll?”
”I won't take any wooden nickels.”
Pete was nonplussed. He hesitated in the doorway, unable to utter his ritual farewell. Robbed of speech, he descended the steps and let the screen door bang behind him.
Charlotte took a deep breath. Her lungs expanded. Her spirit spread out to fill the trailer. She poured herself another cup of coffee and picked up her book. In the deepening twilight she sank down into the final chapters of The Mill on the Floss.
After a while she could no longer see to read. She stood up and turned on the light, then paused for a moment to look out at the other mobile homes. Their glowing windows were comforting, as always. Behind the blinds of the trailer next door, Eugene Beaver would be was.h.i.+ng his supper dishes. Honey Mooney's curtains were new, replacements for the ones that had burned. Beyond Honey's mobile home Charlotte could see Norman Peck's lighted windows.
Sitting down again, she picked up her book. Then she lifted her head from the book and stood up.
Norman Peck was dead. His trailer was empty. Why was a ray of light streaming down on the long gra.s.s around it, the gra.s.s n.o.body had cut since his death? What was going on in there? Perhaps Norman's daughter Fran was showing the old Landola to a prospective buyer. Stu LaDue said she was trying to sell it for a lot more than it was worth.
Charlotte opened her door, walked softly down the steps, and crossed the driveway to take a look.
There were no cars parked at Norman's place. His daughter wasn't there. But someone was inside. Charlotte saw a woman sail past the window and out of sight, then whirl past it again. She was dancing! She was wearing earphones and dancing with her eyes closed, bobbing around, turning in circles, dipping and swaying.
Charlotte watched for a moment, wondering what to do. Then she walked to the end of the driveway, climbed the steps to Julian's door, and knocked. At once she hurried down the steps again and stood on the pavement. She didn't want him to think even for a moment that she was invading his privacy.
When Julian opened the door, Charlotte turned away at once and pointed. ”Norman's place, there's someone in there.”
”There is?” Julian came down the steps and they walked together back to Norman's trailer.
”There she is,” whispered Charlotte. They stood still, watching the woman with the earphones. She had stopped dancing. She was reaching up into Norman's kitchen cupboard, taking out a jar, running her finger around the inside, sucking the finger.
”Jam,” murmured Charlotte. ”I guess Fran didn't clean out the shelves.”
Moving away, they stopped beside Charlotte's mobile home to talk it over.
”I don't know what to do,” said Julian. ”Who do you suppose she is?”
”Probably one of those homeless people. I've seen them on Main Street near the hardware store.”
”Jesus.” Julian looked back at Norman's windows.
”I suppose she shouldn't be there,” said Charlotte, ”but it seems silly to leave it empty when people are sleeping on the street.”
”Right,” said Julian. He stood irresolute for a minute, then shrugged his shoulders. ”So let's just forget about it, shall we?”
”Good.” Charlotte watched his thin shape move away, merging with the deepening darkness. Aching a little, she went back inside.
Next morning Julian looked out at the little street of mobile homes, wondering if Norman's was still occupied. The pale trailers nosing this way and that along the driveway looked a little seedy this morning. The turquoise plastic shutters were supposed to make the long narrow houses look like colonial dwellings, but Julian thought the shutters were ridiculous.
There were no lights in Norman's trailer, but of course there wouldn't be, not in the daytime. Only later, as Julia; set off for the landfill, did he encounter the woman with the earphones. They were dangling around her neck.
”Hey, mister,” said Bobbsie Low, ”what's the matter with my sink? I got no water.”
”You're disconnected,” said Julian. ”Wait a minute.” He went back indoors to find his toolbox, then accompanied Bobbsie back to Norman's. ”How'd you get in?” he asked her. but then he saw how she had done it. She had smashed the gla.s.s louvers of the locked door, probably with one of the white-painted rocks around Porter McAdoo's yard next door.
Later on when Julian came back from the landfill, eager for a shower, he encountered an outraged Stu LaDue.
”f.u.c.king homeless,” hollered Stu. ”Three or four of 'em, they've moved in. They're in Norman's place and s.h.i.+rley'; and Porter's. Somebody even moved into old Jane Peac.o.c.k's place, back there behind the laundry shack, the one's been empty for three years. We gotta get 'em outta here. I'm gonna call the police.”
”Oh, Stu, what the h.e.l.l difference does it make? Those old rigs are empty anyhow.”
”You think we ain't got enough crime around here already?” whined Stu. ”You wait. They'll steal everything's not nailed down.”
But when the police came, the four trailers were empty once again. Stu yelled and waved his arms and complained, but there was nothing to be done. The patrol car left, with Stu standing in the driveway, shouting after it.