Robert Alter - 100 Malicious Little Mysteries

“Because it’s wrong, that’s why. I’ve compromised my principles long enough.”

I began to sweat. The room was oppressively hot, but that was only partly the reason. I was shaking with inner rage. The old fool couldn’t see beyond the end of his thin quivering nose. He would sacrifice the business and our future, his daughter’s and mine, and feel smugly sanctimonious. And for what? An insignificant little crime that would hurt nobody.

“You mustn’t judge the poor woman,” I said, trying to think of a way to avoid the clash that was sure to come. “Her father says it’s a sickness.”

“Rubbish. She’s a thief, and worse, she makes no attempt to hide it.” His jaw set obstinately. There was not a drop of perspiration on that cold forehead. “I tell you I have my principles, though your generation wouldn’t understand that. AH you value is the dollar.”

You should talk, I thought grimly. I’ve worked for him long enough to know how he cheats his customers. Nothing big or obvious — just a niggling penny here and there or merchandise a bit substandard. My one comfort was that he could not live forever. My wife was his only child, born late. If I hung on, the store would eventually be mine — a starting point for the ideas and plans that churned impatiently inside my head. I couldn’t allow him to throw everything away because of his single-minded morality.

He kept watch like a hangman waiting on the scaffold, but I began to feel a little hope. She walked up and down the aisles fingering things and dropping them back in the bins. Perhaps the whole thing would blow over. She didn’t always steal. It’s the weather, I told myself. For weeks the heat had clamped down like the lid on a boiling pot, shredding nerves and stroking tempers. Go away, I pleaded silently; make your purchase and get out of here.

It was too late for prayers. Her plump fingers had chosen their prize for the day, bold as brass. The old man sucked in his breath sharply and prepared to charge out of the office, but I grabbed him.

“I won’t let you do this,” I said.

“You can’t stop me.” He tried to shake me off, but I hung on tenaciously. “This is my store. I know you’re waiting anxiously for me to die so you can get your hands on it, but at present I am very much alive and I’ll do as I please.”

“Go ahead then,” I said recklessly, “but listen carefully. If you do this, I’m leaving. You spend a lot of time belittling me, but you’re not a stupid man. You’re crafty enough to recognize the amount of work I put into this store. The truth is, you can no longer handle the business alone.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he snapped, but he hesitated.

“I have another opportunity.” It was a blatant lie, but I was desperate. “I’ll take it tomorrow. You’ll lose not only my help but your daughter and grandson as well.”

He licked his lips, but I could read nothing in those hooded, fish-gray eyes. It took every ounce of my will power to fold my arms and lean casually against a desk, to pretend I could breathe the hot soggy air.

“Well,” I said. “Exactly how much are your principles worth to you?”

He didn’t answer, just turned his back on me and went out to the counter where the woman waited with a few pennies’ worth of nails to legitimatize her visit. I thought his walk seemed slower than usual and his shoulders drooped, but I couldn’t be certain. I followed him with my heart thudding painfully against my ribs, convinced that I had made a ghastly mistake and ruined my future.

He accepted payment without a word or a look at her large shopping basket where the hatchet handle was plainly visible. He even managed a stiff nod and a “Good afternoon. Miss Lizzie,” while I breathed a shaky, victorious sigh and made a note to charge the stolen ax to Mr. Borden’s account.

There were plenty of empty stools in Leo’s, it being the Monday after Easter, but the kid followed Hickman all the way to the end of the bar and sat down next to him. Normally, Hickman would not have minded having company, but on this Monday evening he was tired and would have preferred to sit alone.

The kid looked to be about twenty-two or twenty-three, and he needed a shave. Hickman shifted his stool a fraction of an inch farther away and concentrated on the glassy stare of the deer’s head mounted behind the bar.

“Quiet night,” the kid said.

“Yeah,” Hickman grunted. He motioned to the bartender who was pulling on a red vest. “One of the usual, Leo.”

The bartender dropped ice cubes into a squat glass and poured whiskey over them. He set the drink in front of Hickman and turned to the kid.

“What’ll it be?”

“I’ll have a glass of beer,” the kid said.

“How about a sandwich, Mr. Hickman?” the bartender asked while he filled a glass from the beer tap.

“No, thanks, Leo. I’m trying to lose a few pounds.”

The bartender patted his own stomach. “That’s what I ought to do, but I’d rather be fat and happy than thin and miserable. As long as the girls don’t complain, right?”

“Sure,” said Hickman.

Leo picked up the money for the drinks and went down the bar to ring it up.

“This is my first trip to Los Angeles,” the kid said. “I’m from Oregon.”

“Nice state,” Hickman said. “Green. Rains a lot, though.”

The kid leaned over and peered intently into Hickman’s face. “Look, do you mind if I tell you a story? I have to tell it to somebody all the way through just one time. If you’re a hunter it should interest you. It’s a story about a stray bullet.”

Hickman studied the kid for a few moments. He was thin, almost frail, under the too-heavy checkered jacket. He had an unruly shock of brown hair and was overdue for a shave. His eyes had a pinched, hurting look.

“Okay,” Hickman said, “Let’s hear it.”

The kid signaled for Leo to bring each of them another drink, and began to speak in a tight voice.

“My name is Wesley Mize. Last September I was married in Portland to a girl named Judy who I knew ever since we were in grade school. She was blonde and cute with sky-blue eyes the size of half dollars.

“For our honeymoon I took a week off from my job in a sporting goods store. We planned to just drive around our own state. On the second day we were headed out Highway 58 east of Eugene when Judy spotted an old logging road leading off into the woods. She was sure there would be wild blackberries, which she loved, up that way, so I turned off the highway and drove as far as I could before the brush got too thick.

“We got out of the car and, sure enough, wild blackberries were everywhere. Judy laughed and danced around like a little girl. She got a plastic bucket out of the car and ran ahead of me to fill it up with the berries.

She went running up on top of a little rise then, and she turned to wave for me to come on. She said, ‘Hurry, Wes, come see what I found.’

“I started up to where she was waiting for me, but I never did see what she found. Just as I got to the rise where she was standing, a bullet went through her head and killed my wife of two days.”

“Hey, that’s terrible,” Hickman said, feeling that he should say something.

“I just about went crazy,” the kid went on. “I never heard the shot that killed her, but then there were three more in quick succession. I didn’t see where they hit. I just started running at the sound like I was chasing the devil. My foot got caught in some roots and I fell. It broke two bones in my right leg. Somehow, I don’t know how, I must have crawled back to Judy’s body, because that’s where they found me in shock about six hours later. If a patrolman hadn’t seen where our car turned off the highway and gone up to investigate, we might both still be there.”