Part 18 (1/2)

She held up her hands. ”No, no-just tell me about the postcards and the horn. What does he say about them?”

”Postcards? Horn?” I shook my head. ”He hasn't said a word about either one.”

”Natch,” she said. ”Excellent, perfect. But perf.”

”Sorry, I'm conf and have an imp app,” I said, rising.

”What's that?”

”I said I'm confused, Ellen. And I'd try to understand, but I haven't time. I've an important appointment. Good luck, dear.”

The appointment was with the dentist, and, with that grim visit over and the back of the afternoon broken, I decided to find Larry and ask him about the postcards and the horn. It was Tuesday, and it was four, so Larry would naturally be at his barber's. I went to the shop and took the seat next to him. His face was covered with lather, but it was Larry, all right. For years, no one else had been in that chair at four on Tuesday.

”Trim,” I said to the barber; and then, to Larry, ”Ellen Sparks says you should know still waters run deep.”

”Hmmmm?” said Larry through the lather. ”Who's Ellen Sparks?”

”A former student of yours. Remember?” This forgetting routine was an old trick of Larry's, and, for all I know, it was on the level. ”She graduated two months ago.”

”Tough job keeping track of all the alumnae,” he said. ”That little Buffalo thing? Wholesale groceries? I remember. And now the shampoo,” he said to the barber.

”Of course, Mr. Whiteman. Naturally Naturally the shampoo next.” the shampoo next.”

”She wants to know about the postcards and the horn.”

”Postcards and horn,” he said thoughtfully. ”No, doesn't ring a bell.” He snapped his fingers. ”Oh yes, yes, yes, yes. You can tell her that she is absolutely destroying me with them. Every morning I get a card from her in the mail.”

”What does she say?”

”Tell her the mail arrives as I am eating my four-minute eggs. I lay it all before me, with her card on top. I finish my eggs, eagerly seize the card. And then? I tear it in halves, then quarters, then sixteenths, and drop the little snowstorm in my wastebasket. Then it is time for coffee. I haven't the remotest idea what she says.”

”And the horn?”

”Even more horrible punishment than the cards.” He laughed. ”h.e.l.l hath no fury like a woman scorned. So, every afternoon at two-thirty, as I am about to begin practice, what happens?”

”She lifts you off the floor with a five-minute blast on the horns?”

”She hasn't the nerve. Every afternoon I get one little, almost imperceptible beep beep, the s.h.i.+fting of gears, and the silly child is gone.”

”Doesn't bother you, eh?”

”Bother me? She was right in thinking I was sensitive, but she underestimates my adaptability. It bothered me for the first couple of days, but now I no more notice it than I notice the noise of the trains. I actually had to think a minute before realizing what you were talking about when you asked about horns.”

”That girl's got blood in her eye,” I said.

”She'd do well to send a little of it to her brain,” said Larry. ”What do you think of my new student, by the way?”

”Christina? If she'd been my daughter, I'd have sent her to welding school. She's the kind the teachers in grade school used to call listeners listeners. The teachers would put them in the corner during singing cla.s.s, and tell them to beat time with their feet and keep their little mouths shut.”

”She's eager to learn,” said Larry defensively. He was sensitive to intimations that his interest in his students was ever anything but professional. And, more or less in self-defense, he was belligerently loyal to the artistic possibilities of his charges. His poisonous appraisal of Ellen's voice, for instance, wasn't made until she was ready to be chucked in the oubliette.

”In ten years, Christina will be ready for 'Hot Cross Buns.'”

”She may surprise you.”

”I don't think she will, but Ellen may,” I said. I was disturbed by Ellen's air of being about to loose appalling, irresistible forces. And yet, there was just this d.a.m.n fool business of the cards and horn.

”Ellen who?” said Larry fuzzily, from under a hot towel.

The barbershop telephone rang. The barber started for it, but it stopped ringing. He shrugged. ”Funny thing. Seems like every time Mr. Whiteman's in here lately, the phone does that.”

The telephone by my bed rang.

”This is Larry Whiteman!”

”Drop dead, Larry Whiteman!” The clock said two in the morning.

”Tell that girl to quit it, do you hear?”

”Fine, glad to, you bet,” I said thickly. ”Who what?”

”That wholesale groceress, of course! That Buffalo thing. Do you hear? She's got to quit it instantly. That light, that G.o.dd.a.m.ned light.”

I started to drop the telephone into its cradle, hoping against hope to rupture his eardrum, when I came awake and realized that I was fascinated. Perhaps Ellen had at last unleashed her secret weapon. Larry had had a recital that night. Maybe she'd let him have it in front of everybody. ”She blinded you with a light?”

”Worse! When the houselights went down, she lit up her fool face with one of those fool flashlights people carry on their key chains till the batteries pooh out. There she was, grinning out of the dark like death warmed over.”

”And she kept it up all evening? I'd think they'd have thrown her out.”

”She did it until she was sure I'd seen her, then out it went. Then came the coughs. Lord! the coughs!”

”Somebody always coughs.”

”Not the way she does it. Just as I took a breath to start each number, she'd let go-hack hack hack. Three deliberate hacks.”

”Well, if I see her, I'll tell her,” I said. I was rather taken by the novelty of Ellen's campaign, but disappointed by its lack of promise of long-range results. ”An old trouper like you shouldn't have any trouble ignoring that sort of business,” which was true.

”She's trying to rattle me. She's trying to make me crack up before my Town Hall recital,” he said bitterly. The professional high point for Larry each year is his annual Town Hall recital-which is always a critical success, incidentally. Make no mistake about that-Larry, as a singer, is very hot stuff. But now, Ellen had begun her lamp and cough campaign with the big event only two months off.

Two weeks after Larry's frantic call, Ellen and I coincided at lunch again. She was still distinctly unfriendly, treating me as though I were a valuable spy, but not to be trusted, and distasteful to deal with. Once more she gave me the unsettling impression of hidden power, of something big about to happen. Her color was high and her movements furtive. After a few brittle amenities, she asked if Larry had said anything about the light.

”A great deal,” I said, ”after your first performance, that is. He was quite burned up.”

”But now?” she said eagerly.

”Bad news for you, Ellen-good news for Larry. He's quite used to it now, after three recitals, so he has calmed down beautifully. The effect, I'm afraid, is zero. Look, why not give up? You've needled him long enough, haven't you? Revenge is the most you can get, and you've got that.” She'd made one basic mistake that I didn't feel was up to me to point out: All of her annoyances were regular, predictable, which made it very easy for Larry to a.s.similate them into the clockwork of his life and ignore them.

She took the bad news in her stride. I might as well have told her that her campaign was a smas.h.i.+ng success-that Larry was at the point of surrender. ”Revenge is small apples,” she said.

”Well, you've got to promise me one thing, Ellen-”