Джон Макдональд - More Good Old Stuff

Suddenly the dancing, posturing figure in front of him became the personification of all the blind and bitter luck that had hung on his heels. Post forgot where he was. He forgot what it was about. He couldn’t see and he couldn’t hear. There was a dancing face in front of him that he had to beat down to the floor. He felt the fury roll into his arms. He felt his nails biting into his palms.

He rushed the white face, swinging blindly and grunting as he swung. He was moving forward and the face receded. Then the room seemed darker and he felt stabbing blows on his eyes and mouth. For the first time he felt the jar of his fist striking bone. He dug his chin into his chest and hammered with his two arms, short chopping blows as his mouth grew dry and his breath was an acid gasp in his throat. He couldn’t feel the blows on his own face anymore, and suddenly the white face wasn’t in front of him. His fist smashed into wood. He stepped back and looked down. The white face was there, suspended a few feet off the dim floor. He swung his right leg and felt his shoe smack something. The face was white and red and it was lower. He swung his leg again and somebody spun him around. He clubbed his fist at another face and it went back into the mist. He could see the white rectangle of the doorway. Something hit him on the side of the head and he tried to run toward the door. It was like running through deep water.

Then somebody had hold of his arm, pulling him out through the doorway, where the bright sun smacked down against his face and blinded him. He was pulled toward a car, and he fell into the seat, still unable to see clearly. He felt the car move and heard the roar of the motor. He was tossed over against the driver as they turned around a corner. He pulled himself back. Then another corner. He lurched against the door. It was an open car. The wind blew through his hair.

The world began to clear. He heard his own sobs as his breath kept catching in his throat. He had a deep sharp pain in his side, the same pain he used to get as a kid when he ran too far. He looked around, realizing that they had turned into Carmody Road, heading out of town by way of French Hill.

He looked at the driver. He was a swarthy man, a small man, with dark hot eyes and a wide firm mouth. He was dressed quietly and well. He had a faint smile on his lips — a smile of amusement and condescension. It annoyed Post. He decided not to speak until the driver did. He pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at his lips. He felt dried blood on his chin.

The man didn’t speak. He drove fast and skillfully. The car was a new maroon convertible — a Ford. They drove beyond the expensive new developments, out to where the farms begin. The road climbed and there were fewer farms. At last the man pulled off onto the wide shoulder near a small patch of woods. He switched off the motor and opened the glove compartment. He handed Walker Post a wad of Kleenex.

“Better go and mop off that face. You’ll feel better. There’s a stream right down there beyond those rocks. I’ll wait.”

Post took the tissues and climbed out. He felt stiff, sore and shaken. His legs quivered as he climbed down over the rocks. The stream widened to a dark pool under a thick willow. Water bugs skated across it. A dragonfly hung in the air over a weed.

He knelt down and dipped the tissue in the cold water. He mopped his face and it felt good. The damp tissues were stained pink with the blood from his lips and the cut beside his eye. He took his time. He bathed his knuckles. The air in the moist hollow smelled dank and sweet.

He brushed his hair down with his fingers and walked back up to the car. The man was smoking a cigarette. He silently handed Post one when he climbed back into the car. The dash lighter clicked out and Post lit it. It didn’t taste good. His heart still thumped from the exertion of the fight.

“I might as well let you know who I am. Dr. Benjamin Drake. I’ve no right to the title Dr., but I like to use it.” His voice was soft and seemed to be filled with gentle self-scorn.

“I’m Walker Post. I suppose I owe you some thanks.”

“You’re a mean citizen in a scrap, Post.”

“I wanted to kill him. I never did anything like that before. If I hadn’t been stopped, I would have, I guess. How much did you see?”

“Walked in just as you backed him against the wall. He lost the grin when you hit him the first time. You were lucky. He could have taken you.”

“What’s your object? What do you get out of this?”

“Probably nothing. You don’t look either friendly or grateful.”

“I don’t give a damn whether you came along or not. I wouldn’t have given a damn if I had killed him.”

“You don’t have to tell me that. I can read it on your face. Something has given you a kicking around. Right?”

“What if it has? I don’t want sympathy and I won’t answer questions.”

“Maybe I could help you.”

“Nuts.”

“You can’t make me mad, Post. Here, let me show you what I do.” He pulled a wallet out of his inside jacket pocket and leafed through it. He found a clipping and handed it to Post.

He read: “MERIDIN LAKE SOLD. The Republic Lumber Company announced today that they sold eight square miles of land, including Meridin Lake and the deserted lumber camp, to Mr. Benjamin Drake of Chicago. Mr. Drake stated that he will open up a combination summer camp and health resort restricted to a few patients at a time. The camp will open on July 1. Tax stamps on the recorded copy of the deed indicate that the sale price was in the neighborhood of $110,000.”

Post handed it back to him. He was puzzled. “What’s that got to do with me? I’m no patient. I don’t need a cure.”

“You don’t know what you need. I’m what you might call an amateur psychiatrist. I don’t want you as a patient. I want you to work for me. You don’t look as though you have a job. You look like you need some outdoors in your system. You look like you could use the very small pay I’ll give you.”

“I don’t need a thing from you or anybody else. I got plenty of bucks in the bank. I’m getting along. Just drive me back or let me out here.” He snapped the cigarette butt off into the highway.

“I did you a favor; now you do me one. Just take that chip off your shoulder for five minutes and don’t interrupt me. Okay? You owe me that much.”

Post shrugged. “Go ahead, Doc.” He knew he couldn’t be talked into anything.

Drake slumped down behind the wheel and stared down at the horn button, a frown of concentration on his face. Finally he looked up at Post and smiled.

“I was trying to find the best kind of approach to your type of closed mind. Let me put it this way. Life has slapped you down. I don’t know how and I don’t care. You’re down. You have no interest in anything. Sometimes you wish for death but not strongly enough to kill yourself. Back in your mind is the furtive little idea that someday you’ll be okay again. You don’t really know. You wonder about it and then force your mind away from it. What are you doing? Nothing. So long as you have that idea in your mind that someday everything will come back — energy, enthusiasm, ambition — you owe it to yourself to put yourself in circumstances that will do the most for you. Right now you revel in drab surroundings. You won’t admit it, but you do. You’re punishing yourself for something. Get away from it. Come on up to Meridin Lake and get brown and healthy. Healthy on the outside. The work isn’t hard. I need another man. You can have your drinks there. I won’t pay much. Fifteen a week and your keep. Get away from this town for a while. It won’t cost anything. Nobody’ll expect you to be friendly. Just do it on a hunch of mine. Now don’t answer quickly. Wait a few minutes.”