Glade
By Martin F. Sorensen
The tall Douglas firs marched past through the
fog like a band of dark, menacing Druid giants. Glade Zelinski
stared up at them and the unrelenting steel dome of cloud cover. He felt cold
slivers of ice whip around his neck as he walked back to Camp Quilcene. Twenty young men followed him along the road,
carrying pick axes and saws.
"This sure ain't
no Shangri-La," he said.
"You promised us a rose garden and all we
got were the Olympic Mountains," Jack Murphy said, a Chicagoan, big as the
Midwest. He carried a sledgehammer on his shoulder like it was an umbrella.
"I can't believe we're cuttin' trees in the
middle of nowhere."
"Yeah, well, you're getting paid for it.
And so's your old man. Maybe you'd like to sell
apples on Michigan Avenue," Glade said.
"I tried that. That's why I'm here,"
Jack said. They all laughed.
"Hey, this is Washington State, you can
get 'em wholesale," Will Anderson said. He was
tall and thin, nicknamed Ichabod.
"Sorry, fellas,
they already got the CCC over in Wenatchee working the crop," Glade said.
"Forget the apples, I bet they have swell
dames over there," Jack said. He moved the sledgehammer to the other
shoulder.
"Yeah, when are you goin'
to get us to Bremerton so we can catch a ferry to Seattle?" Ichabod said.
Glade turned around and looked at him.
Everyone stopped. Glade was twenty-eight, ten years older than most of them.
The Army Colonel in charge of Camp Quilcene had put
him in charge of a squad of boys because he had been in the Marines, even
though Glade was in the Civilian Conservation Corps like the rest of them.
"You all know," he said, "that
I don't decide when you get some time off. The colonel decides that."
"Yeah, we don't have to go all the way to
Seattle," Jack said. "We can just get us somebody older right there
in Bremerton. Like Glade does." He laughed, and took the sledgehammer off
his shoulder and laid it on the ground.
Glade went up and stood six inches from Jack
and then poked him in the chest with his finger.
"You watch what you say," Glade
said. "And you mind your own business."
Jack held up both his hands and took a step
backwards.
"Hey, don't get upset, boss," he
said. "I didn't mean anything by it. Don't take it so personal."
"You bet it's personal," Glade said.
He raised himself a couple of times off his heels and folded his arms across
his chest.
Jack laughed at him. "Jeepers, I was only
havin' a little fun."
Glade turned away. "Not with me you're
not," he said. He turned around to everyone. "All right, let's get
back to camp."
They all marched silently the next twenty
minutes until they arrived at the set of wooden barracks they had constructed a
few weeks before. The men broke ranks and headed off in several directions.
"Hey, Murphy," Glade called.
"Come over here for a minute. I want to talk to you."
Jack put his sledgehammer against the side of
a building, and walked over to Glade. He put his hands on his hips and a wide
grin on his face, showing perfect bright white teeth.
"What's up?"
"I don't like your attitude," Glade
said.
"And just what do you think you're goin' to do about it?"
"I don't think you know who's in charge
here."
"I do my work. More than anybody,"
Jack said. He grimaced and jerked his thumb back over his shoulder.
"You keep your big mouth shut."
"Or else?"
"Don't threaten me."
"I do my work, you hear me? Don't you
threaten me, little guy."
Glade went up to Jack and shoved him in the
chest. Jack did not move.
"You say one more word about me and it'll
be the end of you," Glade said.
Jack raised both arms and shoved Glade
backwards. Glade fell down, then got up and charged Jack, butting him in the
stomach with his head. Jack reached down and grabbed Glade by the balls. Glade
reached down and tried to remove Jack's hands, as he felt pain like a bolt of
lightning from his testicles all the way up to his kidneys. Jack let go, and
took Glade's arms and raised them up.
"How do you feel now, Leatherneck?"
Jack said. Then he noticed the deep scars on the underside of Glade's wrists.
"What the fuck?" Jack looked at the
wrists again, then let the arms go and stepped back. He stared at Glade.
"You miserable pile of shit." He walked away.
Glade sat down and looked at his wrists. He
still felt burning pain in his groin. He watched Jack disappear into the yellow
fog as he passed a building with a bare light bulb in the window. Then he got
up slowly, leaned over for a moment with his hands on his knees and breathed
deeply, then cautiously stood up and walked over to the Colonel's office.
He knocked on the door.
"Come in," Colonel Johnsrud said.
Glade opened the door. The colonel was leaning
back in a rocker, a cigar in his left hand.
"What's up?" the colonel said.
"Well, I have two things I want to talk
to you about, sir," Glade said.
"Go ahead," the colonel said. He put
the cigar down on an ashtray.
"First, I request that Jack Murphy be put
in someone else's squad. He and I don't get along well, and he wants to do
everything his own way. It causes problems."
"Why, shit, if that's what you want. No
problem. You're making good progress. I'll do it tomorrow. What's the second
thing?"
"I need a couple of weeks off. My dad has
taken ill, and my mom's having a hard time."
"Okay, son, I can do that, but neither
you nor your parents will get any money."
"Colonel?"
"Yeah, what?" the colonel leaned
forward and picked up his cigar and put it in his mouth.
"Could this just be between you and me,
Sir? I mean it's just a couple weeks and my dad is very sick."
"Look, son, you been in the Marines. You
know what it's like. This here ain't the Army, but
it's just like the Army. You know I have to do a report every morning. No way.
Now you can go if you want, but it'll be on the report."
"Thank you, Sir. I do need the time
off."
Glade waited for the car in front of him to
move off the ferry, then gunned his Indian 4, and went down the off ramp on to Yesler Way. He turned right on Second Avenue, and slowly went
south. He saw the St. Charles hotel, brought his motorcycle up on the sidewalk,
got off and leaned it on the kickstand. He looked up at the dark red brick
building with a grimy window. Sitting inside was an old man, with a dirty
unshaven face, bloodshot eyes and a cigarette hanging out the corner of his
mouth. He was reading a newspaper spread out on the counter.
Glade went in and walked up to the man.
"I need a room for about a week, maybe
two."
"You and who else?"
"Nobody. Just me."
"It ain't free."
"I can pay."
"Pay now."
"Sure."
"Cops lookin'
for you?"
"Nope."
"They come around here."
"Fine."
"I don't hide nobody."
"I'm not hiding."
"Don't want no noise."
"I'm alone, I told you."
"Lonely people make noise."
"Give me the key."
"Give me some money."
"How much?"
"Two dollars."
"A night? This ain't
the Ritz." Glade turned and looked out the window at his motorcycle.
"And you ain't
Errol Flynn. A week."
Glade took two dollars out of his pocket and
put it on the counter. The man took the money, studied it, turned it over,
folded it and put it in his pocket.
"Hey, that's not your money."
"I'm the cash register. Here's your key.
Upstairs in the front."
"I need someplace to put my
motorcycle."
"Got no place."
"Can't leave it outside." Glade
looked around the lobby.
"It will fit back there under the
stairs," he said, pointing.
"That's an extra buck if you want me to
watch it."
"Here." Glade gave the man another
dollar bill.
He went out and brought his motorcycle inside
and put it underneath the stairwell. He took a small leather bag and a chain
and lock out of the saddlebags. He
attached the chain and lock, and went up to his room.
He turned the key and opened the door. In the
middle of the small room was a small table with a wooden chair on either side.
A single bed was in the corner, with a dirty gray pillow and army blanket
folded on top of it. The room smelled of smoke and whiskey. Dark yellow
wallpaper of barely visible flowers covered all four walls. A single light bulb
dangled from the ceiling with a long pull chain. He opened the door next to the
bed and saw a toilet and sink that looked like they had never been cleaned.
He went over to the window and pulled back the
curtains, and watched the street for a long time. He saw a building across the
street down half a block where men would go in and after a while come out with
a small paper bag under their arms, looking left and right before walking on.
He went down to the lobby and stopped in front
of the old man.
"I need to get some whiskey."
"Don't we all."
"You do it, I'll watch the store."
"What's in it for me?"
"One for you, one for me."
"Okay."
The old man held out his hand. Glade put a
dollar in it. The man left, and came back fifteen minutes later with a large
paper sack. He took out a quart bottle with no label and handed it to Glade.
Glade stared at it and looked up at the old man.
The old man laughed and looked him in the eye.
"This ain't the
Ritz, remember. And this ain't scotch. Ain't you never done this before?"
Glade took his bottle upstairs. He sat on the
bed, opened the bottle, and took a long drink. He felt the tasteless burn all
the way down to his stomach, then put the bottle on the floor, and lay down on
the bed. He heard a horn outside. He got up and closed the window.
He laid back on the bed, and let his arms fall
over the side. He scraped his left wrist against the edge of the mattress,
lifted his head and looked at the wrist and laid back down again. He sat up and
picked up the bottle of whiskey and took another long drink, then got up with
the bottle and went over to the table and sat down. He put the bottle on the table and picked up
the bag and opened it. He took out a straight razor and a dark blue towel and
put them on the table.
He stood up and walked around the room. He
looked at his wrists, and noted where the scars underneath ended on the side.
Then we went back to the table, put the towel on his lap, and picked up the
straight razor in his right hand.
He held his left hand over the towel, palm up.
He looked at where the scar began on the inside, then turned the palm down, and
twisted his arm to see where it ended. He took the razor in his right hand and
started to cut, then put it on the table and took a long drink of whiskey. He
put the bottle down and breathed a heavy sigh, then picked up the razor. He
placed it carefully on the scar, and drew a bloody line across the top of his
wrist to where it met the scar on the other side.
He clenched his teeth, and put the razor on
the towel, and twisted the hand downward to force the wound open. He took
another drink of whiskey, and started another cut, and then twisted the hand
downward again. Another drink, and he went over on the bed. He propped the
pillow up and lay back against it. He felt sick to his stomach and the room
started to turn around him. He closed his eyes. He jerked suddenly as he
imagined Alice spitting on him. He saw Maria jerk backwards into the dirt. He
saw himself on the beach.
Glade Zelinski put
his foot on the running board of his father’s Model-T, pulled a pack of
Chesterfields out of his side pocket, and put a cigarette in his mouth. He held
the pack out to Tommy Warren and Karl Ritter. They each took a cigarette. Glade
lit their cigarettes, then his own and then blew the smoke straight out before
him and watched it waft upwards and disappear.
“Well, Glade,” Karl said, “we all know she’s
been after you for four years. Isn’t it time you made an honest woman out of
her?”
“Yes, Glade, you dumb cluck, if you don’t, I
will,” Tommy said. He and Karl laughed.
“Make an honest woman of her?” Glade said. “I
might just do that.”
“What do you mean?” Tommy said.
“I don’t know exactly. Maybe I mean to marry
her.”
“You have to be kidding,” Karl said.
“Yes, Glade, it is just a dance, after all,”
Tommy said.
“Ah, yes, I know, gentlemen,” Glade said,
holding up the hand with the cigarette as if he were posing at the Ritz
bar, “but this is the highlight of the
social season, is it not?”
“We have a social season on Queen Anne Hill?”
Karl said.
“We do this year,” Tommy said, smiling and
looking back and forth at his two friends.
Glade tilted his head and raised his eyebrows
and stared at Karl. “She’s already said yes, boys. Like you said, she’s been
after me for four years.”
“Are you taking the Model-T?” Karl said.
“Nope. We’re going in Robbie’s Packard.”
Glade answered the doorbell. “Hi, Robbie. You
alone?”
“Heck no, the girls are waiting in the car.”
Glade said good-bye to the parents, and the
two boys went out the door, and out to the curb. Robbie went around and got in the driver’s
seat, and Glade climbed in the back, next to Alice. They smiled at each other as he sat down.
“Hi, Alice,” he said.
“Hi to you,” she replied, and gently touched
his arm. Alice Steinhardt was a beautiful girl with long, wavy auburn
hair. She was tall for a girl. She had
eyes that were a dark hazel, bordering on brown, but appearing green in some
kinds of light.
For Glade, it was a sign, a portent of the
triumph to come later in the evening.
“This should be a lot of fun,” she said. “Do
you know how to do the Charleston?”
“No, I don’t. I don’t advertise myself as a
good dancer. Maybe we could practice a
little bit off the main dance floor, somewhere.”
“OK.
It’s not really very hard, but it sure is a lot of work.”
They drove in silence the few blocks to the
school, enjoying the bright lights of the downtown view.
When they arrived, they found a spot to park,
and Glade took Alice’s hand and they all went in to the brightly decorated
gymnasium. Most of the students were milling around in groups of boys or girls,
but others were starting to form couples. A very few were still outside next to
their cars sneaking a smoke or a drink. They went in the hall.
The lights dimmed. A bass clarinet began to
moan the melody of Blue Moon. The
couples moved out from the side of the room and started revolving around the
floor. Glade led Alice out to the center of the dance floor, where there was a
single light in the ceiling providing a spotlight. He began to notice a
heightened sense of self-awareness, as he gently maneuvered them ever so slowly
to the center spotlight, waiting for a coming softness in the music. When they arrived at the spot, with her dark
red hair shimmering in the light, he took her left hand and held it tight. Then
he put his right arm around her and began to pull her closer, his fingers
touching her bra strap. He put his cheek next to her, moving slowly with the
music.
“Alice, I want to marry you,” he said as he
brought his right hand back and gently squeezed her breast.
She took a step backwards, screamed and
slapped him in the face, then pushed hysterically through the crowd on the
dance floor and ran towards the door.
Glade raised his hand to his cheek as if to
feel the pain, and saw the angry eyes surrounding him. He walked with hard
steps to the door, keeping his head down. Outside, he saw Alice run down the
concrete steps, across the lawn, and over to the car. Glade ran and opened the
door, shoved her down on the seat, lifted up her dress, slid his hands along
her thighs, ripped the stockings off the garter belt, and pulled her underpants
down. He unbuttoned his fly, shoved her thighs apart, and went down on top of
her, still breathing heavily from the run off of the dance floor. He held both
her arms down on the seat until he finished with a great sigh and moan.
He suddenly became aware of voices far
away. He got up, straightened himself
out, stepped out of the car, and slammed the door. He began running down the
street towards his house, only a few blocks away.
When Glade arrived home, he went upstairs to
his room without saying anything. His parents were nowhere to be found, and the
car was not parked out front. He took off his suit and put on a shirt and blue
jeans, put a few things into a small suitcase, and took the $50 he had been
saving up. He walked over to his uncle’s house, and hid the suitcases behind
some bushes before he went up and knocked.
When Robert came to the door, Glade told him that the senior prom was
too boring, and that his mom and dad weren’t home, and the door was locked, and
could he just stay the night and go home in the morning.
He stayed awake during the night, waiting for
a phone call from his parents asking if he were there. It did not come, nor did it come in the
morning. He thanked his aunt and uncle,
went outside and picked up his suitcase and went home. He went back into his room, unpacked his
suitcase, then went downstairs, out the door without saying a word, and took a
short bus ride downtown, walked half a block and entered an office with a
window with the words “United States Marine Corps”.
Glade shoved his
duffel bag inside the baggage compartment of the Greyhound bus. He took off his hat and wiped his forehead
and felt the afternoon Los Angeles heat rise up from the blacktop. He went up to the front of the bus, gave the
driver his ticket to Seattle, and got on.
He looked down the narrow aisle and saw the back row of seats was
empty. He noticed everyone’s eyes
looking at him as he walked slowly to the back of the bus.
Half the people on the
bus were men his age, and a couple of them were Marines in uniform, but he did
not recognize them. He made it to the
back of the bus and sat down. He looked
down the aisle and saw no one turned around. He breathed a sigh of relief. He
watched the driver get out of his seat.
“The first stop this
bus makes is Santa Barbara, and we’ll have time for dinner there. We’ll have
breakfast in Salinas, and then head on to San Francisco. It’s all in the timetable. It’ll be pretty through the mountains. A full moon tonight, if any of ya are up.”
Glade watched out the
window as they pulled away from the bus station and drove through quiet
neighborhoods and got on 101 going north. He looked down at the scars on his
wrist, then looked up out the window again.
He felt a strong tension in his stomach.
He saw a woman walking
by the side of the road, and imagined he saw her thrown back by bullets as red
spots formed on her chest. Goddamned bitch.
He remembered them taking him back in the truck, their eyes on him with
disgust, all of them. He put his head in his hands for a minute, then looked up
towards the front of the bus. Halfway up
he saw a woman with a child, a woman just about his age. He thought of going up and talking to her,
but he noticed the other Marines in the bus and decided against it.
As the bus headed out
towards the coast, he looked out the window again, and suddenly felt
sleepy. He lay down on the row of seats,
folding his arms for a pillow, closed his eyes, and tried to fall asleep. As he lay there, the motion of the bus caused
him to bump his cheek against his wrist, and he felt the scars, and he bolted
upright in the seat. He looked towards the front of the bus, but no one was
watching.
When they stopped for
dinner in Santa Barbara, he didn’t get out to go in the cafeteria. He stayed in his seat and stared at his
wrists. He thought for a moment of
getting out and trying to have dinner with the woman and the child, and he
looked into the windows of the cafeteria, but couldn’t see any of the people.
He was startled to hear the bus driver come down the aisle.
“Hey pal, it’s gonna be a long night.
You really ought to get somethin’ to eat.”
Glade looked up at
him.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” The driver looked down at his wrists, but did
not say anything. Glade got up,
following the driver out the bus and went into the cafeteria. He sat down at the counter.
He watched a tall
waitress come over with a pot of coffee in her hand. She winked at him as she
turned over his cup, and bent over so he could see the top of her breasts as
she poured the coffee, looking him in the eye.
“What’ll it be
tonight? How about a Santa Barbara
burger?”
Glade gave her a big
smile, took another look at her well-tanned breasts, then looked her back in
the eye. “I think that would be great.”
“Anything to drink?”
she said, smiling back at him.
“Iced tea will do, I
guess.”
“Comin’
right up.”
He looked around in
the cafeteria. The woman and child were
sitting alone in the booth. The other
passengers were scattered around the restaurant. Shortly, the waitress brought his dinner, and
left him a check. He picked it up and
looked at it, and when she passed by he handed her two dollars and the
check. He felt the warmth of her hand as
she gently squeezed his fingers. She
went away to the cashier and came back quickly, and held the change out for him
to take, touching his hand again as he took the money.
“Thanks, honey, stop
by again when you’re comin’ this way.” She winked at him once more.
“Thanks, I might just
do that,” he said.
He thought for a
moment she looked something like Maria, but a minute later the look wasn’t
there anymore. He finished up his
dinner, and before getting back on the bus, he went up to her and thanked her
again. As he turned to go out the door,
he noticed the woman with the daughter staring at him. He smiled at her and held the door for her to
go out. She turned her head away and
walked out briskly without saying anything.
He got back on the
bus, headed for the back, and huddled in the corner by the window. He watched
the city lights fade and soon the gray lines of wavecaps
shimmering in the moonlight.
Glade slept through
the night until they arrived at Salinas.
He got out of the bus with the rest of the passengers, went into the
restaurant, and sat down at the counter next to the woman and her child, but
she turned away from him and talked to her daughter. When they got back on the
bus, she was ahead of him. He walked
past her, looked down and gave her a smile.
She looked at him, without saying a word, with an impassive face, then
looked over at her daughter. He felt a
momentary tightness in his stomach. He went back to his seat, and sat watching
out the window until they reached San Francisco.
He waited in the bus
station for several hours for the bus to Seattle. When it was taking passengers, he got on
early and headed for the last seat again.
He lay across it to make sure no one else would sit next to him. He rode the trip North in silence. For meals, he went out quietly, and when it
was possible he bought a sandwich and ate it near the bus, otherwise he sat
alone in the restaurant, eating as quickly as possible. He watched to see if any new passengers were
about to board the bus, and made sure he was the first one back on.
The next evening the
bus pulled into the Greyhound station in Seattle. He went out front and found a cab to take him
to his house.
He got out of the cab
and paid the driver. He stood looking up and down the street, listening for
sounds of the neighborhood, looking at the other houses, and seeing who had
their lights on. For several minutes, he
did not look at his own house on Prosch Place. Then he turned and looked at the house. It was dark.
He pictured his father
in his undershirt with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, a newspaper in one
hand almost touching the floor, bent over in his unhealthy crouch, looking up
and then turning away without saying a word.
But the house looked empty. No rocker on the porch. No curtains on the
upstairs window. No car in the side yard
driveway.
He looked left and
right down the street again, as if they might just then be coming in, but there
was nothing. He waited to see if the
next door neighbors would come out, but no one appeared. He picked up his duffel bag and went up the
stairs. He opened the screen door, and
held it open with his shoulders, while he tried the front door. The door opened easily with a twist. He tiptoed in and set the duffel bag
down.
He was about to turn
the light on when he heard the sounds upstairs of creaking springs and the
voice of a man moaning. He laughed to
himself and shook his head. The old man is always gettin’
his. He took out a cigarette and lit it.
He leaned against the
stairway banister and smoked quietly, blowing smoke in the dark as he listened
to the sounds from upstairs and looked at the lights in the windows from the
houses across the street.
He went into the front room and turned on the
light. Nothing had changed. The couch, the chair, the radio, the lamp,
the doilies, the ashtray, the beer bottles, the knitting basket, the detective
magazines. He left his duffel bag just
inside the door. He went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. He saw
half a dozen bottles of Olympia. He took
two of them, went over and opened them with the opener nailed to the wall, and
took them into the living room. He
pulled the ashtray on the coffee table closer to the couch, lay down and began
drinking the beer. He lit another cigarette and listened to the quiet in the
dark. After he finished the beers he
became drowsy. He turned over on his
side and fell asleep.
He awoke early in the
morning with the sun shining through the dingy end window above the radio. He sat up for a moment, expecting to see
someone looking at him, but no one was there.
He lay back down and for a while floated in and out of sleep for an
hour.
He awoke to see his
mother in an old faded yellow bathrobe, her still-dark hair piled on her head
in a scraggly mess, looking down on him, her hands holding each other close to
her stomach.
“I moved your things
out of the way,” she said. “Come on into the kitchen.”
He got up slowly, rubbed
his hands over his face, and followed her.
In the kitchen, she
found a pack of cigarettes, and lit one while she put the coffee in the
coffeepot and filled it with water, put it on the stove, and lit the gas. She opened the kitchen door and looked in for
a moment, then shut it.
“What will he say when
he sees you’re back?”
She opened the
refrigerator door again. She took out the bacon and the carton of eggs and put
them on the counter and closed the refrigerator door. She picked them up again and shuffled a few
feet over to the stove. She reached up
and got a pan out of the cupboard, put it on the stove, filled it with bacon
strips and lit the gas. She pulled out a
chair with a loud scraping noise, hesitated before she sat down, then fell
heavily into the chair. She looked over
at the coffee, then looked down at the floor.
“Aren’t you glad to
see me?”
She got up slowly, and
went over to him, looking him up and down. “You’re not in uniform?”
“What makes you think
I would be in uniform?”
“We heard you was in
the Army, even though you never wrote. Never said goodbye.” She turned around and went back to her
chair. She pulled her bathrobe tight
around her.
“I was in the war,
mom. How do you like that?”
“Ain’t
no war on now.”
“I was in it, mom.”
She shook her head.
“It’s a cryin’ shame what you did to that girl.” She
shook her finger at him.
“I didn’t do anything
to anybody.”
“Ashamed to look at
the neighbors.”
“You got no reason to
be ashamed, mom.”
“Don’t talk to us any
more.”
“Aw, they’re not worth
talkin’ too anyhow.”
She turned when the
coffee finished percolating, went over got three cups and saucers and put them
on the table. She poured the coffee, and
moved one cup over to his side of the table and motioned with her hand for him
to take it. He sat down and picked up
the cup.
“You hungry?”
“Yeah.”
The bacon was sizzling
in the pan. A loud splat made her jump.
“Scrambled eggs?”
“Sure.”
She moved the bacon to
one side, then lifted the frying pan to get the grease over to one side, broke
three eggs into it, and mixed them all together.
She turned and looked
at him. “Toast?”
“Why not.”
“Going to stay here?”
“What do you mean?”
“On vacation?”
“Not exactly.”
“Have to go back?”
“I’m not in it any
more.”
“Can’t just quit like
that. I know that much.”
“I been in long
enough. Now I’m out.”
She went over to the
kitchen door and looked out the window.
“What are you going to
do?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Planning on staying
here?”
“Well it makes a
difference on where I sleep tonight doesn’t it?”
“Son, you know you’re
always wel…” She looked into the hallway where Louis Zelinski came walking into the kitchen. Glade turned around in his chair and looked
at his father without getting up.
“Thought I’d heard
someone talking to you, Eleanor, and what d’ya
believe who it is? I thought we’d never
see the likes of you again.” He stood
there, in his shorts and undershirt, unshaven, bleary-eyed, ugly yellow teeth. He ran his fingers through his dark gray hair
and scratched the stubble on his cheek and neck, sticking his chin out as far
as he could. He then scratched his butt, staring at Glade. He leaned against the door and folded his
arms.
Louis looked at his
wife and motioned her to get out of the away. He went over to where Glade was
sitting and stood next to him, scratching his balls. Glade lifted his head and
looked at him, hunching his shoulders.
The father slapped him
on the back of the head.
“You shiftless, mangy
bastard. Why the hell did you come
home?” He walked around the back of the chair. Glade turned to follow him. Louis quickly raised his right arm back up
over his left shoulder, closed his fist, and then swung it hard down on Glade’s
ear. Glade fell off his chair, and knelt
on the kitchen floor, holding his head with both hands.
Louis began laughing
as he stood there in a lazy stance with one hand on the chair and the other on
his hip. Glade started to get up, and as
he was halfway vertical, he lunged forward, grabbed his father around the knees,
and pushed his head against the stomach and knocked him down. Louis fell straight backward on the hard
linoleum floor.
The fall knocked the
breath out of him for a moment. He
looked up dazed at the ceiling. Glade
jumped on top of him, straddling him with his knees, and began to choke Louis,
felt the taut muscles in his stomach and shoulders as he tried to push his
fingers through the neck. A sudden
bright glint of light caught his eye. He
let go. Louis brought his hand up to his
throat and began rubbing. Glade reached
over and grabbed a short knife off the counter, took it in both hands and
raised it high above his head.
Louis put his arms in
front of his face and shouted, “No! Please! No!”
Glade brought the
knife down over Louis’ face. The man grabbed Glade’s arms and pushed up. Louis
made an ugly grimace, and Glade then noticed that his father was looking at his
wrists. He pulled his arms away and threw the knife down on the floor. He got up and went over to a chair. He pulled his shirt cuffs up over his wrists
to hide the scars.
Louis got slowly up off the floor, sitting for a moment.
He got up on one knee, then put his hand on the knee and pushed and stood up,
stepping back on one foot, grabbing a chair back and then sitting down. He ran
his fingers through his hair again, picked up a pack of cigarettes from the
table and lit one, staring at Glade. He
exhaled heavily, moved his jaw left and right, and rubbed his neck.
They sat there in
silence, the three of them. Louis pointed to Glade’s wrists.
“Botched that, didn’t ya,” he said turning his face away to exhale.
Glade said nothing,
but lit a cigarette. His mother came over and looked at him. She took his
wrists in her hands, then let them drop and turned away.
“Eggs is burnt all to
hell,” she said.
Louis rubbed his neck
again, looked around the kitchen floor and saw the knife, looked at Glade and
said, “Well, I will say I didn’t know you had balls.”
Glade looked at him,
then looked away. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Louis sucked hard on
the cigarette, and held it in a long time before breathing out his nose. The smoke moved down onto the table and
spread out in a circle.
“How did you give it
to her?”
“I still don’t know
what you mean.”
Louis rotated the
cigarette around. “I mean the girl you raped.”
“How do you know it
was me?”
“Don’t play dumb with
me, you piece of shit,” Louis said. “Why didn’t you come home that night?”
Glade looked at his
mother, then his father, then down to the floor, then back up again.
“You don’t
understand. She slapped me in front of
everyone. She treated me like dirt. I got crazy.
But I gave her what she had coming.”
“Damn right you
did. It was the only manly thing you’ve
ever done.
“Why didn’t you come
home?”
“I joined the
Marines.”
“The Marines? That where the hell you been?”
“I was in military
action. I was wounded and got a medical discharge.”
“You got a Purple
Heart? Show it to me.”
“Well, they don’t give
it to you right away. It takes a while
to process the paperwork. I got wounded
in the butt in Nicaragua. I sure as hell
ain’t showing that to anybody.” He looked down at his sleeve and pulled his
shirt up over the scars on his wrist.
“You were in a real
war?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“There ain’t no war on now.”
“Yes there is. Guerillas in Nicaragua. I looked one of ‘em
right in the eye and shot him dead. Shot one inside a church, too.”
“You shot one in the
eye, he shot you in the butt. You musta been running
away.” Louis stood up and laughed.
“I gotta piss.” He
left the room and came back a few moments later.
“The guerillas didn’t
shoot your balls off, I’ll say that,” he said. He went over to the stove and
poured a cup of coffee, then went back and sat down. He leaned back and crossed
his legs. He pressed his cigarette out in the ashtray and took a long, slow
drink of coffee that left his lips wet. He leaned over to Glade, one arm on the
table, the other holding his cup.
“I got some news for
you.”
“What.”
“That girl, what was
her name?”
“Alice Steinhardt.”
“Yeah. She’s got a
little boy now, a real young one.”
Glade stood up and
walked over to the kitchen window and looked out at the driveway and the
neighbor’s house. He remembered for a
moment Maria’s son in Managua. He was
silent for a long time.
“How do you know?”
“Remember your friend
Robbie? His dad told me.”
Glade imagined Alice
walking along with the little boy at her side. He put both hands on the rim of
the kitchen sink and rocked back and forth.
Louis lit another
cigarette and turned around towards Glade.
“Did you learn
anything at all in the Marines?”
“I did learn to work
on trucks some.”
He took a chair and
sat down in it backwards and folded his arms on the back.
“Do you still have
your motorcycle?”
“It’s not in one
piece.”
“Will you let me have
it if I fix it up.”
“Yes, you can have it,
but I ain’t going to give you gas to run it.” Louis
shook his head.
“Don’t worry about
that. I have enough gas money until I
find something. I understand they have
CCC jobs over on Hood Canal.”
“You won’t get rich
doing that,” Louis said.
“Yeah, but they’ll
give me enough to buy gas and get me a place to sleep.”
“It’s an Indian 4,
damn big machine. No insurance.”
“Aw, don’t worry, I’ll
take care of insurance. Show me where it is.”
Louis and Glade went
out to the garage and slowly opened the large doors. The red motorcycle stood in the corner leaning
against the wall. A few dirty pieces
were on the ground behind it.
Glade put his hands
around the handles.
“It doesn’t look like
it will be hard at all. I bet I don’t
even have to get any new parts.”
He pulled the
motorcycle away from the wall, and straddled it, bouncing up and down a little,
playing with the gearshift stick on the right side. He got off, and looked it over, rubbing the
little light on the front fender in the shape of an Indian head.
“Do you know what’s
wrong with it?”
“Well, to tell you the
truth, I think it’s just the oil line. I didn’t want to pay to have it fixed
because I wasn’t going to go riding around on it. It’s five or six years old
now. You’re welcome to it.”
“Yeah, thanks,” said
Glade, his head nodding.
Louis lifted his arm
up in half a wave, and went back into the house. Glade sat for a while on the bike and
imagined he was racing by Alice’s house with the little boy looking out the
window. He stomped on the kicker. The machine
roared to life for an instant, then quickly sputtered out. He got off and
slammed his fist down on the leather seat.
“Goddamn!” he yelled,
and smiled. He pulled the motorcycle
into the center of the garage, and went and got the parts from the corner and
began cleaning them.
Glade put everything
back into his bag and pulled his gloves over his healing wrist. He then checked out of the hotel, and drove
his motorcycle home.
He smiled when
his mother opened the front door for
him.
“Don’t tell me you
been kicked out of the CCC,” she said.
“No, Ma, I just needed
to get some time to myself. They got me leading a squad, you know.”
“Time for what?”
“Time for myself. Time
to go see Alice.”
“You don’t want to do
that, Son.”
“That’s for me to
decide, Ma.”
He took the big Indian
out the driveway on to the street, let it idle for a few seconds, revved it up
some, and then took off around the block as loudly as he could. He came back to the house, turned off the
motor, got off and walked around it and looked around the neighborhood to see
if anyone was watching. He ran his
fingers through his hair, then lit a cigarette, and stood smoking it, sitting
on the machine.
After a few puffs, he
flicked the cigarette into the street, started up again, and moved loudly down
to the corner, took a right turn, and went looking for Robbie’s house. A couple of blocks away he found it, and
roared by, looking for someone to push back the curtains. He went on to Alice’s house half a mile away,
and stopped the motorcycle out front and let it idle while he lit a cigarette.
Soon an elderly woman
peeked through the living room curtains, and then a white-haired man came out
the front door. He put his hand above
his eyes to block the sunlight and squinted at Glade.
“What do you want,
son?” the old man said in a timid voice. “We don’t want any trouble here.”
Glade shut his
motorcycle off and smiled at the man.
Quietly he said “I beg your pardon sir, I was looking for Alice
Steinhardt.”
“There is no
Steinhardt here,” said the old man.
Glade rubbed his chin
and looked down at the fading grass on the parking strip, then looked up. “She
used to live here. Her family lived here. Do you know where they went?”
“No. I’m afraid I can’t help you there. There was nobody living here when we bought
it.” He turned and looked back at the
woman who was still peeking out from behind the curtains.
Glade nodded his head,
and started up the engine and rode quietly away. He went aimlessly down the street, turning a
corner now and then, waiting for something to draw his attention. Finally, he went back home, put the
motorcycle in the garage, and went inside to his room in the basement.
He lay back on the
bed. He thought for a moment of walking
over to Robbie’s house, tried to remember his phone number but couldn’t. He went upstairs where his mother was
preparing dinner. He saw her look up
from the stove when he entered the kitchen.
“Heard your dad’s
motorcycle. Never thought he would be proud of you.”
“I wonder how proud he
is.”
“Just happy you’re
home and not fighting with him.”
“I don’t want to talk
about it. Can’t do anything about it. I want to talk about Alice.”
He watched her move
the pieces around the frying pan.
“You know she has my
son,” he said.
“Don’t know that,” she
said.
“Don’t you like being
a grandma?”
She took the pan off
the burner, and wiped her hand across her forehead and then on her apron. “Don’t want to talk about it.”
He moved closer to her
and she backed away and looked around for something.
“Where is she?” he
said.
“Don’t know where she
is Glade. No reason for you to go after her.” She turned and looked him in the
eye. “She doesn’t want to see you.”
“Why not? Tell me why?” He shook his head and spread
his arms out with his palms open.
“What do you expect?”
“I didn’t do anything
to her, don’t you understand that?”
“How did she get your
baby? Tell me that,” she said, turning
around and looking at him again.
“Mom, listen to
me. I didn’t do anything to her on the
night of the dance, I swear. But there
were other times.”
“Other times?”
“What I mean is, I
know she will want to see me because I am the father of her child.”
“You think this woman
has waited for you all this time?”
“I went over to her
house today,” he said.
His mother put the spatula
down. “Did you see her?”
“No.”
“Did you knock on the
door?”
“No. They came out and
said she didn’t live there any more.”
“Too ashamed to stay
around here.”
“I will find her,
Mother. And then you will see. She loves me.” He left the kitchen and went outside and got
on his bike. He rode around for about
half an hour, then, as the sky became dark and city lights started to come on,
and traffic began, he went back. Louis
was sitting in the living room smoking a cigarette and drinking a beer as his
wife finished setting the dinner table.
Glade came in and sat down opposite Louis.
“How can I find out
where she lives?” he said.
Louis held his hand to
his mouth as he coughed, then laughed. “You might try going over to her house.”
“I did that
already. She’s not there anymore,” said
Glade.
“Did you look in the
phone book?” asked Louis.
“No.”
“Well, maybe you ought
to ease your mind about it, don’t you think?”
Glade went over to the
hallway, got the phonebook, and started searching through the letter S. There were four Steinhardt listings. None of them had her name, and he realized he
didn’t know her parents’ names. He started to pickup the phone, then put the
earpiece back on the hook. He got up and went back into the living room.
“What’s the matter,
got cold feet?” said Louis, lighting up a cigarette.
“No, I don’t have cold
feet. Not me. I just want to make sure what to say, that’s all. I got to think about it for a little while.”
He stood up, put his
jacket on, and went out to his motorcycle.
He went for a slow ride around the neighborhood. He pictured her and a little boy walking
around the block. He thought of the
little boy running towards him, over and over again, until it ran itself out,
and he went back home. Louis was still
sitting in the living room, listening to the radio and smoking.
Glade went over to the
phone, and started dialing. On the third call, someone answered and, when he
asked about Alice said that she was not there at the moment and offered to take
a message.
“No thank you,” he
said, and hung up. He looked at the
address in the phone book: 3929 41st Ave Southwest. He went to the middle drawer of the buffet in
the dining room, and shuffled through it, but didn’t find a map. He went out again down to the Standard
station and got a city map. He looked up
41st St. SW and found it on Alki point.
“I’m going over to see
her,” he said, and went out the door. He
got on the bike, and headed south through the city, on to Alaskan Way and
Harbor Avenue to Alki Point. He quickly found 41st Avenue, and then
quietly and slowly followed the house numbers down to 3929. It was a small red brick house with a large
living room window. There was a chimney
on the side of the house. It sat on a
corner lot, with a neat front lawn and several small rhododendrons. A flowering
plum tree stood isolated on the parking strip.
He stayed across the
street, turning the motor off, and sat there for a few moments. The living room light was on, and there was
also a light on in the dining room and kitchen windows on the side of the
house, but he could not make out any movement. The city was dark. No one was on
the street. He noticed that the street
ended in a park about a block away. He
went over to the park, and could barely make out the sign that read “Hiawatha
Park”. He saw the outlines of playground
equipment.
He turned around, and
went home, after passing by her house one more time, slowing down just in case
and then rode on to Alki Point. He stayed a long time in silence, watching
the brightly lit downtown and following the line of cars moving across the
waterfront and along the string of lights leading up to Magnolia Bluff. He followed the slow movement of a ferry into
the pier. He turned around and looked
back down 41st avenue, imagining for a moment that Alice and the boy were
looking toward him. When he realized
there was no one there, he got back on his motorcycle and rode home.
The next morning he got up early, took the
same route south, and stopped the motorcycle a half a block away and watched
the house, sipping hot coffee from a steel thermos jar. A light fog enveloped the neighborhood. A
couple of blocks away he heard a trolley pass. One by one cars started up and passed
him by. He watched her house. A man in a brown hat and suit came out the front
door and got in his car and drove off.
Glade had a momentary urge to follow him, but resisted. He pulled the collar up around his neck and
waited. He was startled when the door opened and a small boy stepped out,
followed by a blond woman in a green coat.
He recognized Alice. He thought the boy looked something like himself.
He watched them go out
to the sidewalk and turn down the street away from him. He waited until they were out of sight, then
turned on the motor, and moved as slowly and quietly as he could until he got
to the corner. He saw them still
walking. He turned the corner and moved
up the street, stopping for a moment so that he couldn’t catch up. He had a momentary impulse to pull up
alongside them and introduce himself, but didn’t do it. In a few minutes the woman and child reached
a corner and made a right turn.
He went up to the
corner, and saw them sitting on a bench at a bus stop. When a bus came, they got on. Glade followed the bus for a couple of miles,
watching everyone that got off. He
noticed Alice and the boy got off the bus and started down a side street. He followed them at a distance. They seen went
up to a house. When Alice knocked, a
woman came to the door, smiled, then smiled down at the boy and took him
inside. Alice turned around and walked
back toward the bus stop.
Glade suddenly turned
his bike around without looking and crossed the street. A car screeched to a halt to avoid hitting
him. He didn’t look to see if Alice had
noticed, but went up to the corner and took a right turn, stopping a half a
block away. He looked behind him and saw
her getting on the bus. He followed this
bus again, all the way to Boeing Field, where she got off and went into a
building.
Glade rode aimlessly
for several hours then followed the traffic northward until the road began to
rise up to Magnolia Bluff. When he got
to the top, he found himself on Magnolia Park, looking out past the Madrones out over the Sound, watching the ferries once
again, as they passed Alki Point.
He sat for a long time
on the ground, smoking one cigarette after another, trying to think of what to
do. He decided the only way to get to
see her was to wait around her house until she came out with the boy to go to
the park. She must do that sooner or
later. He imagined going up to her in the park, seeing her turn, in surprise,
then looking over at her boy, back at his father, and coming over to him. He
went home, and said nothing to his parents, who asked him nothing.
The next day Glade
read a few old magazines, went for a walk, waiting for the afternoon. He went back to Alki
Point, and parked his motorcycle where he could see her leave the house and go
to the park. Once when a lady peeked out
her curtains and looked disapprovingly at him, he moved his motorcycle down
half a block and began walking around to where he could see her house. He saw her, with the little boy, coming back
from the bus stop.
He walked over to her
house, which she had just entered. He went up to the front door and
knocked. It seemed a long while before a
stout woman with gray hair came to the door.
“Is Alice here?” he
said. The woman turned around to look.
“No, she’s not here,”
she said.
“I know she’s here, I
just saw her go in.”
“Just who might you
be, young man?”
“I’m a friend. I just wanted to say hello.”
The woman said,
“Excuse me a second,” and closed the door part way. Glade turned and looked around the
neighborhood to see if anyone was watching him. When he turned back, he saw
Alice looking up at him, with the boy holding on to her skirts behind her. She
was silent, saying nothing, just staring at him. She looked down at the boy, and pushed him
behind her, then started to close the door.
Glade put his hand out to stop the door.
She pushed harder, put his foot in the doorway, shoved back and got
halfway in the house. Alice screamed, grabbed the boy and ran into the dining
room. Glade opened the door and stood in
the doorway, watching Alice and the boy behind the dining room table. The older woman came out of the kitchen with
a knife in her hand and stood still.
“Alice, do you know
this man?”
“Yes, mama.”
“Who is he?”
“He’s the man who…”.
She looked down at her little boy.
Glade smiled and
looked down at the boy. He started to walk into the dining room. Alice took the boy by the hand, and pushed
her mother into the kitchen.
“Don’t you come near
him,” shouted Alice. “You get out of
here right now. Go on! Get out!” She pointed to the door.
Glade backed away into
the living room. “I’ll come back some
other time,” he said.
“You don’t ever come
back here,” she shouted. “You don’t have
any right to come in here. You leave me alone.”
“But he’s my son,” he
said. He put his hands up on both sides
of his head.
“He’s not your son,
you bastard,” she said, “you have no part of him.”
“But you said he was
mine,” said Glade.
Alice put the boy’s
hand in her mother’s. “I did not say he was yours. I want you out of here now or I’ll call the
police.”
“Don’t do that,” he
said as he backed towards the front door. “I’ll go now, but I want to come
back. Can’t you see he wants to be with
his daddy? Come here, my boy, come to your daddy.”
The boy did not
move. He looked up at his grandmother.
Alice moved closer to Glade. “I’ll give you one more chance to get out of here
before I call the police.”
“You don’t want to do
that, Alice,” said Glade, shaking his head.
She moved up to Glade
and said “You don’t know my name, you don’t know me. Look at you, you filthy pig.”
She raised her arm as
if to slap him. He put his hands up in
front of his face, watching the boy to see his reaction. Alice saw the scars on his wrist.
“Oh my God! Look at you, you pathetic idiot. You tried to kill yourself!” She began to
scream at the top of her voice.
“Why didn’t you do
it? Why aren’t you dead!” She put her
hands on his chest and pushed him backwards.
“Alice, no,” he said.
“It can’t be like this.”
She pushed harder,
then raised her head, and looked at his mouth and tried to spit on his lips,
but the spit landed on his nose and cheeks.
He raised both arms, and began to wipe the spit off, and she pushed him
out the door and closed it. He finished
cleaning his face, feeling the pain in his chest, abdomen and legs. He turned his hands palms up and looked at his
wrists.
“You made me do it!”
he yelled.
He left the house and
walked over to his motorcycle.
He lit a cigarette, and stayed there a
moment watching the house. His head
hurt, his nose felt stuffed. He saw
Maria lying on the ground in the jungle, then he saw Alice lying on the ground
in front of her house. He saw himself
standing over her, holding the boy’s hand.
Then he saw nothing, as a loud passing car interrupted his thoughts. He started the motor, went slowly past the
house, looking at the window.
He saw himself on the
front lawn with a shotgun, shooting out.
He imagined his tight chest and stomach muscles as he pulled the
trigger; the barrel pointed towards police cars in the street. He felt the kick
when he pulled the trigger on the shotgun. He saw men in blue uniforms jolted
backwards, their arms flying over their heads, pistols falling to the ground.
He saw one bang his head against the fender of the police car and fall to the
ground, blood streaming out of his mouth, his eyes staring at nothing.
Then he felt the cold
air rushing by.
“I’ll be back,” he
yelled as he rode slowly past the house.
Then he took off and drove home.
He went through several red lights, stopping only when there was too
much cross traffic.
He put the motorcycle
back in the garage, went into the house, with the lights out, nobody around. He
went downstairs into the basement, into his room. He lit a cigarette. He lay
back on the bed and put his hands behind his head, puffing smoke out his mouth.
He wanted to go to sleep, but could not.
He pictured Alice dancing with him at the prom, beneath him in the car
as he raped her, and then spitting on him.
He got up and went
outside and got on his bike, and went down to Seattle Sporting Goods, and
bought ten boxes of shotgun shells.
When he got home, he
went down into the basement, and found the shotgun standing in the corner. He
picked it up, wrapping it in an old jacket from the closet. He put the boxes of shells into a shopping
bag, then went outside and put them into the leather sidebags
on the Indian. The gun he laid in front of him so that it pointed out the front
of the machine, with the jacket wrapped around it, on top of the handlebars. He
took off his belt and wrapped it around the gun and tied it in a large clumsy
knot.
He went back in the
basement, lit a cigarette, then went upstairs where his parents were sitting in
the living room, smoking and drinking beer.
“I’m going over and
kill her,” he said. They looked at each other and put their beers on the table.
Glade took his motorcycle one more time south through the
city. He felt the cold air rushing past
his face as he raced down the avenues.
He was careful about his speed and the lights, and watched the other
lanes for police cars. He saw several,
but they paid no attention to him.
As he turned around to Harbor Boulevard and started going
north towards Alki Point he began to think of the
great firefight that would be erupting.
He put his hand on the shotgun and felt its steel strength.
He imagined the boxes of shotgun shells at his feet as he
knelt before the broken front window, her body behind him a bloody mess on the
floor. He saw the many police cars out
front, the police chief on the horn demanding his surrender, rifles pointed at
him. He turned south again on 41st
Avenue. He breathed slowly, feeling the
dampness of the sea air filling his lungs.
As he approached Alice’s house he looked around, and saw no one on the
street.
He stopped his motorcycle across the street from her house
between two dark Plymouth coupes. He
noticed all the lights were on in the house.
He got off the motorcycle, unstrapped the shotgun and threw the jacket
on the ground. He leaned it against the
motorcycle and opened the saddlebags.
As he leaned over and put his hand around two boxes of
shells, he felt four strong hands grab hold of his arms, while another went
around his throat. He felt a cold metal
tube against his spine.
A voice whispered in his ear, “It’s all over sonny, you’re
not gonna need that ammo.” Several car lights turned on. He saw policemen in uniform all around. He looked up to Alice’s house and saw no one
in the window.
He tried to pull away but they held him even tighter. A big tall man with a badge on his vest
pocket raised a baton and said “You quiet down, son, or I’ll put you in the
hospital.”
“Kill me. Do it
now, just kill me, please.” They
maneuvered him into a police car, and once inside he settled down into a
depressed sulking silence.
They took him downtown, fingerprinted him and locked him
in a cell for the night. The assistant
District Attorney brought him into court. The judge noted the fact that Glade’s
parents, and Alice and her family would not testify. He also noted Glade’s
medical discharge from the Marines. He
cited Glade for vagrancy and put him on probation.