Evan Hunter - Candyland

They drink. She takes his hand in bets. She pats his hand the way she did in the taxicab, when be was hurting all over.

"What happened to your dog?" she asks.

"The ASPCA came to take her."

"Why?"

"Because she wouldn't pay attention. She used to crap all over the house."

He falls silent, remembering.

"They were supposed to come while I was at school," he says, "but they got there late. They were putting her in a cage when I walked in the house. I begged my mother not to let them take her. She kept telling the guy he should have got there earlier."

"So what happened?"

"He took the dog. And I stopped talking to my mother."

"Forever?"

"No, no.”

"Do you talk to her now?"

"She had a stroke two years ago," Ben says. "She's in a nursing home now. We never talk now."

"You were only seven, huh?"

"Well, almost eight. That was a long time ago," he says, and looks at his watch again.

"You notice how every time we start talkin serious here, you look at your watch?"

"I didn't realize that."

"But it's true."

"And I didn't know we were talking so seriously."

Something is nudging his memory.

I'd better get out of here, he thinks.

"You know," he says, "maybe I ought to go. I know you must be, tired…"

“Don't go yet," she says.

"I have a plane to catch."

"Plenty of time yet."

"I'll be late."

Something terrible will happen, he thinks.

He remembers his mother changing her seat. A woman wearing a hat sat down in front of her, so she moved one seat in.

"It must've looked like I was sitting alone," he says.

"What do you mean?"

"Empty seat on either side of me. That day. My birthday."

He falls silent. Across the room, the cockatoo picks up a nut, cracks it in his beak. The room is very still. He can hear the cockatoo working the nut between his jaws.

“What happened that day?" Lokatia asks.

"I don't remember."

"Did somebody sit down next to you?"

"I don't remember."

"Somebody make a move when he saw you sittin alone?"

"I don't know."

"Some man sit down next to you?"

“I don't know."

"Some woman?"

"I really don't know."

"Did somebody bother you, Ben?"

"I don't remember."

"Some person touch you?"

He shrugs.

“While you were watching the movie?"

"I don't know."

"Is that what happened, Ben?"

He shakes his head.

"Why didn't you tell yo mama what was happenin, Ben?"

He shakes his head again.

"Ben? Why didn't you juss tell yo mama?"

He turns to look at her.

"I wasn't talking to her," he says. "She gave away my dog."

At three-thirty in the morning, here in this room with her, there is the sound of traffic muted on the muzzle of the night below, the muffled sound of voices from television sets or radios turned low, the occasional sound of a toilet flushing or a baby crying, or someone mumbling in sleep, and now, yes, the sound of a couple moaning in ecstasy somewhere in the building. Lokatia reaches up to touch his face with the hand that has the blue scorpion tattooed near the wrist. She tucks her head into his shoulder, rests her left hand gently on his chest, He feels quite content here with her in his arms, her hand resting familiarly on his chest.

"Ben?" she says.

Her voice is very low.

"I got to go take care of myself now."

“Okay.”

"You don't have to leave," she says.

"Well, I think I'd better. "

"I'm sorry," she says. "But you know how it is, huh? I got my candy you got yours."

She sighs heavily, pats his hand, and wearily shoves herself off the sofa. The cockatoo shrieks as she walks swiftly to the beaded curtains hanging in the kitchen doorway, and tosses them aside. The curtains click behind her as she goes into the kitchen, stir slightly in her wake, hang motionless and still again, He sits staring at the curtains as if expect mg her to return at any moment. He can hear her rattling around in the kitchen drawers, can hear her swearing softly. He looks at his watch. It is thirty-seven minutes past three. His plane leaves at eight o'clock. He has to get to the airport. He has to fly home. But where is that? How did he ever manage to get so fucking lost?

What the hell had she meant?

I got my candy, you got yours.

In the ladies' room, they are all talking about the death of the President. His mother and all the other women have just learned about what happened in Dallas. He can see the ankles of women under the doors of occupied stalls, legs apart, can see high-heeled shoes, legs apart, can see long-legged women in short skirts putting on bright red lipstick at mirrors over stark white sinks, combing their hair, combing long blond hair, combing long black hair. He jiggles from one foot to the other in the center of the room. He is eight years old today, embarrassed that his mother still takes him into the ladies' room with her, frightened by what has just happened to him, excited by the shocking news and the high shrill voices of the women everywhere around him. Some of the women are crying now. A stall door opens and a girl wearing a mini skirt and high heels comes strutting out still pulling up dark green pantyhose, stepping around Benjy, "Ooops!" she says, smiling at him. Did it really happen? Or was it a dream? He hurries into the stall and unzips his fly. Urine trickles and spits from his penis, and then at last gushes forth in a strong steady stream. He closes his eyes and throws his head back.

Washing his hands at the sink, he can hear the women commiserating about the President. "Isn't it awful what happened?" his mother says. Warm water runs over his hands. He looks up at his own reflection in the mirror over the sink, and sees on his face the secret knowledge of what he shared in the dark with a stranger, and is suddenly Overwhelmed with shame and sorrow and guilt. Instead of going to serendipity for ice cream, his mother takes him home to Mamaroneck.

He does not know how many minutes he sits there alone in Lokatia', living room, the cockatoo silent, the rain beginning to taper outside. At last, he rises from the sofa, and blows his nose on a tissue he takes from a box on the end table, startling the cockatoo, who shrieks in response. His wallet — with the travelers checks Lokatia never asked for — is sitting on the end table beside the box of tissues. He tucks it into the right hand pocket of the jeans. Francis the cat is sitting just outside th, kitchen, staring at the beaded curtains, waiting for his mistress to emerge. Ben parts the curtains, and steps inside. Lokatia is standing at the counter. A blackened tablespoon is on the countertop. A syringe, in her right hand.

"I have to go now," he says.

"Okay, Ben," she says.

"I'm sorry," he says.

"For what?" she says.

"Are you sure you have to do this?" he asks.

"Just say no, huh?" she says, and grins like the little girl she or, must have been. "You get it?" she asks.

He nods bleakly. He goes to her. Takes her in his arms. Kisses her the forehead. Holds her away from him. Looks into her eyes.

"I'll see you," he says, though he knows their paths will never again after tonight. Unless he meets her again in some other city sometime, as he very well might, a white girl next time, wearing a red wig next time, or a Chinese girl wearing very dark lipstick, or a Latino girl smoking a long thin cigar, another Cindy or Fatima or Heidi or Kim Tiffany or Peggy Sue, another someone, another anyone, another woman or girl in yet another city or town someplace, anyplace, ever and always somewhere.

"I got my candy, you got yours."

He guesses he knows what she meant.

He guesses at last he knows.

He looks at his watch.

It is forty-six minutes past three.