She looked medieval and noble, like Joan of Arc in full battle regalia. And also a little like Joan of Arc’s horse. Stowed in her leather saddle bag, in a cellophane envelope, was the next presto-chango outfit: a starched white uniform and sensible white, ripple-soled shoes.
“Lanie,” Elgar said as they got into her struggle-buggy, “I’ve often wondered why you wait tables for a living. You’re smart, you’re good-looking, you could do anything you wanted. Sometimes I wonder if you’re like me.”
“Like you how?” she asked in a tone that rejected all possibility of comparison.
“Doing penance for your crimes. The ones you haven’t committed.”
She laughed—a little nervously, he thought.
“Lanie, I want to shake your hand,” he said earnestly, grabbing it. “I think you live with the horrors as much as I do. But you rate congratulations. On you, they don’t show.”
She laughed again, nasal and cynical. “Look closer, my friend.” Then she pulled her hand away from his and twisted the ignition key, bore down hard on the accelerator. The M.G.’s old horses snorted, coughed, nearly expired, then suddenly roared into life, shattering the night.
“Get smart, Elgar,” she shouted over the wind shrieking past his ear. “Get tough. That’s what you have to do. Encase that soft slob heart of yours in solid steel. Never believe any of their stories. No matter what they tell you, say to yourself, ‘They’re lying. I know they’re lying.’ Get up in the morning and say, ‘I’m tougher. I’ll get them before they get me.’ ”
“Who?” he shouted back.
“Your tenants, of course. Who else, idiot? Pay attention to me!”
“I wish you’d pay attention to your driving,” he complained, for she was attacking the streets like obstacle courses, skimming curbs and corners, narrowly missing parked cars and poles. Finally they skidded to a stop in front of his house, a ten-minute drive in three.
He sat there, stupefied, for another minute.
“Come on, Elgar,” she said, sensing his reluctance, seizing his hand and pulling hard. “I wonder how long it would have taken you to come back here if I hadn’t decided to drag you?”
“Only a hundred years. Or thereabouts,” he said as he was led inside.
But after Lanie’s direct, “Miss Perkins, you’re my absolute idol, I have every one of your records, I was playing them tonight, and I told Elgar, I said, ‘Elgar, I don’t care what time of night it is, I have to meet her right away!’ ” Marge melted like a huge slab of Hershey exposed to intense warmth.
“Well just come right on in, honey. You hungry? There’s some Creole rice on the stove.”
“Oh, your famous perlo. I read about it in somebody’s book, Langston Hughes, wasn’t it? I’d love some. So would Elgar. Wouldn’t you, Elgar?”
She was matching Marge’s sugariness, granule for granule. It was sickening. Elgar thought he might want to throw up instead.
“Naturally he wants some, he’s always hungry,” Marge said, dipping up a rosy bowlful.
“Here, let me do that,” Lanie said, taking the spoon from Marge’s hand. “Don’t you work now. We came to hear you sing.”
“Awww,” Marge said, clasping her hands behind her back. She hung her head and shifted shyly from foot to foot like an embarrassed child. In a rosy-flowered cotton playdress, size 52. “Awww, it’s been twenty years since I sang for anybody.”
“Oh, please,” Lanie coaxed. “Come on. ‘C. C. Rider.’ Nobody can do it like you.”
“Awww,” Marge said again. It was unbelievable, the resemblance to an elephantine toddler asked to recite a Bible verse in Sunday school. “Aw, no, I can’t be playing the piano this time of night.” She winked and added, “Landlord wouldn’t like it.”
“Oh, you do have a piano!” Lanie shrieked in delight, bounding coltlike into the next room. She was being unbelievable too; unbelievable and unbearable. Elgar could not tell who was sincere and who was putting on an act around here. Probably a little bit of both apiece.
He followed them morosely into a dim front parlor furnished in early Lumpy-Gloomy, with more crazy scrapbook pages for walls and stiff lace doilies blooming on every flat surface. Squatting evilly in the center was the only item in the world darker and more massive than Marge herself: a square black Victorian piano.
“Hardly ever touch it any more,” Marge protested as she was led to the stool. “Besides, it’s out of tune.”
Finally she said firmly, “No, child, I won’t play. I’ll just sing.” And did so, sitting erect, hands folded in her lap, with odd, childlike dignity.
Elgar, never musical, fought down the urge to headlong flight that had seized him the moment he started to climb his stairs. He hung around bravely until she got to the line that went,
Gonna buy me a shotgun, long as I am tall . . .
Then he found himself edging rapidly toward the door, unnoticed by the rapt pair. What the hell. It was their party anyway, let them enjoy it. He sneaked out into the hall to light a cigarette with shaking hands.
A strong whoosh of wind instantly snuffed out the match for him. A soft flannel bundle like someone’s bag of laundry landed in Elgar’s sensitive middle, knocking his breath away. Thinking that a pillow fight was in progress, instantly angry and ready to retaliate, Elgar gripped the object firmly. But when he raised it from the floor it developed appendages that clawed and kicked and a hard little cannonball that butted him violently in the chest.
The second match he struck revealed the lively bundle under his left arm to be Walter Gee Copee. Dressed in flannel pajamas, feet, drop seat, and all. Eyes screwed tight, and bawling.
“Well now,” Elgar said, lifting the boy to face him, “well now, what have I got here? Feels too solid to be a ghost. Too wiggly to be laundry. Can it be a sleepwalker?”
Walter Gee pummeled all of the accessible surfaces a dozen more times with hard little fists, then flung his arms around Elgar’s neck, sobbing convulsively.
The spasms shaking the tense little body invaded Elgar’s frame and frightened him. Until now his own suffering had kept him distant from that of others. What, he wondered wildly, were the symptoms of appendicitis? Epilepsy? Other seizures with possible brain damage?
All he could manage was a series of gruff there, there, theres accompanied by awkward pat, pat, pats. He was aware of his inadequacy. Yet somehow did not want to call Lanie or Marge, did not want to share this problem with anybody.
“My pop-pop crazy,” Walter babbled. “Say he gone kill my mama. ‘Bang bang,’ he say. ‘Bang bang.’ My mama run away. My bubba, he run too. I all alone. I scared. It’s dark down there.”
This disjointed message delivered, Walter’s shoulders gradually stilled. An incredibly tiny hand found its way into Elgar’s. And held on with incredible strength.
“Well now,” Elgar said, swinging the boy down, supporting the hard little rump
