Уильям Макгиверн: Odds Against Tomorrow

Mac looked at him steadily. “You showed him,” he said.

“I just wanted to show him, that’s all. It’s something he should know, damn it.”

“Sure,” Mac nodded slowly. “He’s nineteen years old. A big hero on his furlough. You showed him all right, Earl.”

“Well, for Christ’s sake,” Earl said helplessly. “Tell him — tell him I’m sorry. Okay? Tell him, will you?”

“Sure, Earl. I’ll tell him.”

Outside Earl walked quickly through the darkness, the wind bitterly cold against his hot cheeks. Halfway down the block he stopped and looked back at the warm red neon sign that hung above the tavern. He stared at it for a few seconds, his arms limp at his sides, and then he rubbed the back of his hand roughly over his mouth and started for home.

In the apartment Earl snapped on the lights and the television set, and then walked up and down the floor for a while, rubbing his big hands together slowly. Well, to hell with it, he thought. That was all you could say sometimes — to hell with it. He didn’t know why things went wrong with him, but worrying about it didn’t help any; he knew that much at least.

Shrugging, he settled himself on the couch, lighted a cigarette and put his feet up on the coffee table. The apartment as usual was neat as a pin; Lorraine whipped everything into shape before she left for work. Against one wall stood a small white bar decorated with drink recipes in crooked black letters, and topped with cocktail glasses on wicker coasters. A coffee table and ottoman faced the television set during the day but at night these were moved aside to make room for their pull-out sofa. Lorraine had installed a small light over her side of the bed so that she could work nights on her figures and reports; this was a compromise for his benefit because he liked to watch the late TV shows in the drowsy semidarkness. They spent a lot of evenings that way, Lorraine working with cream shining on her face, and Earl smoking and watching the old movies flickering across the screen.

Now, as the set cleared, he sat up expectantly; he liked the children’s shows that came on at this hour. The crazy antics of the little animated figures usually prodded him out of a depression that settled on him as night approached; for some reason he disliked the look of darkness pressing against the windows. The lights in nearby houses and the silhouettes of people against drawn curtains always filled him with a restless and bitter loneliness.

Usually the cartoons were an antidote against this mood. He had a warm feeling toward the announcer on the show, a brash and boyish-looking young man, who wore bow ties and chattered in a silly, funny way to his audience. His name was Danny Doodle, and he pretended to get mixed up during the commercials, saying things such as, “Use your doodle, and listen to your old friend, Danny Noodle, I mean Danny Doodle, and tell your nice moodle, I mean your nice mother, to use her doodle, her noodle, for Heaven’s sakes, and buy some of those doodley delicious oatmeal wafers the first doodle in the morning...” Earl usually found the program good for a lot of laughs. But tonight was different; there was a black patch of anxiety in his mind that refused to be driven away by Danny Doodle’s lighthearted nonsense. Finally he got up irritably and snapped off the set. As he watched blackness spread over the screen he realized that a similar thing was happening in his mind; the black patch of anxiety on the edge of his thoughts grew larger and larger until it finally flooded everything else from his consciousness. Novak, he thought, pacing the floor slowly, his body coiling and tense — that was the heart of the blackness. What to do about the offer? How to figure the deal...

He couldn’t pin down precisely what was bothering him; but this was a familiar frustration, this inability to isolate and analyze his problems. He was caught in a welter of vague, confusing fears, and the struggle to fight his way free tightened the bonds; his nerves strained and the pressure grew within him as he attempted to think himself toward a logical decision.

It wasn’t the money. Fifty thousand dollars. It was an abstract, meaningless sum to him. He had no need for it. So why take a chance? He lived here for nothing. Everything taken care of. Clothes, food, even spending money, ten bucks on the dot every Monday morning. You never had it so good, he thought. You found a home... The old Army taunts stung him. He had to get out; he’d always known that. He couldn’t live here like a pet cat. It was time for him to do something for Lorraine. Marry her, get a regular job and make a regular home. But it wasn’t just getting out of this deal. It was more than that. It was being important again...

Why in the hell was he thinking about the Army so much, he wondered, his eyes flicking to the uniformed picture of himself that Lorraine had hung on the wall. The Army was no bargain. He frowned at the picture, a tinted, blownup snapshot a buddy of his had taken near Antwerp. Not much change over the years. Same weight, same shape. Lorraine liked the picture, he figured, or she wouldn’t have spent eighteen dollars for a fancy silver frame. She was funny about money; she’d complain about a light bill or something, and then turn around and spend ten or twelve bucks for dinner and a few drinks at some fancy restaurant on Saturday night.

He wandered into the kitchen and looked at the clock. She should be along pretty soon. Unless something came up, of course. And trust Mr. Poole to think of something. Poole, the boss, treated the store as if it was some fabulous dame, hanging around as if he couldn’t get enough of the place. Always stewing and worrying about it: why wasn’t the tuna-fish sandwich special selling, and who forgot to put up the new display cards, and why the drug business was off... yakkity-yak, Earl thought, grinning a little as he thought of how Lorraine mimicked Poole sometimes.

On the chance that she’d be on time, he began to get dinner ready, taking three fat pork chops from the icebox, and then peeling a half-dozen potatoes and dropping them into a saucepan of salted water. She would bring the things for salad. Salad was her department. She was always quoting the stuff she got from promotion booklets sent to the store by food growers. “It’s the best nourishment there is for your hair and skin,” she told him frequently. To him it was just rabbit food.

After everything was set out for their dinner, he took a long shower, standing limp under the needle spray and letting the water drive against his shoulders and rush down his lean body. Drying himself he looked critically at his arms and waist; still in good shape, he thought, though his only exercise was trotting down to the corner delicatessen for late sandwiches and beer. He didn’t look old — not much older than the young soldier at the bar, he decided. With water glinting in his coarse black hair, and his eyes dark against his tanned face, he could pass for a guy in his middle or late twenties maybe. An athlete, that’s what you’d take him for... His body was brown and hard, padded with springy and deceptively flat muscles. The bullet wound in his shoulder and the shrapnel scar on his leg had faded over the years; they had been angry-looking for a long time, but now they were almost lost in the surrounding flesh.

He put on faded khaki slacks and loafers, his mood cheerful and confident again; even counting delays, she’d be along any minute. With a drink and a cigarette he stretched out on the couch, savoring the cleanness of his bare arms and shoulders and the interacting pleasures of alcohol and nicotine. But as the minutes dragged on and on, he began to get restless; damn Poole, he thought furiously.