David Goodis - The Moon in the Gutter

But as his gaze returned to the street he saw the dirty-faced kids playing in the gutter, he saw a drunk sprawled on a doorstep, and three middle-aged colored men sitting on the curb and drinking wine from a bottle wrapped in an old newspaper.

Under the vermilion glory of the evening sun, the vast magnificence of an opal sky, the Vernon Street citizens had no idea of what was up there, they scarcely bothered to glance up and see. All they knew was that the sun was still high, and it would be one hell of a hot night. Already the older folks were coming out of shacks and tenements to sit on doorsteps with paper fans and pitchers of water. The families who were lucky enough to have ice in the house were holding chunks of it in their mouths and trying to beat the heat that way. And a few of them, just a very few, were giving nickels to their children, to purchase flavored ice on sticks. The kids shrieked with glee, but their happy sound was drowned in the greater noise, the humming noise that was one big groan and sigh, the noise that came from Vernon throats, yet seemed to come from the street itself. It was as though the street had lungs and the only sounds it could make were the groan and the sigh, the weary acceptance of its fourth-class place in the world. High above it there was a wondrous sky, the fabulous colors in the orbit of the sun, but it just didn’t make sense to look up there and develop pretty thoughts and hopes and dreams.

The realization came to Kerrigan like the sudden blow of a hammer, putting him down on solid ground where a spade was never anything but a spade. He looked at the torn leather of his workshoes, the calloused flesh of his hands. He thought, You better wise up to yourself and stay out of the clouds.

His mouth hardened. His hand moved toward the pants pocket where he had the camera. He asked himself what he was going to do with it.

All right, he thought, it ain’t no problem. All you gotta do is find out where she lives and mail it to her.

But he could visualize her face as she opened the package and saw the camera. He could see her lips curved in contempt, and almost hear her saying to herself, He’s afraid to come here and ring the doorbell.

He wondered what would happen if he went up there to the uptown street where she lived, and actually rang the doorbell. Hell, he thought, what’s there to be scared about? Nobody’s gonna bite you. But damn it, you’d be out of place up there.

Maybe it would be all right if he looked decent, if he was bathed and shaved and properly dressed. He needed a bath anyway, and it wasn’t as though he’d be using soap just to pass some sort of test. It wouldn’t hurt him to put on his Sunday clothes. There wasn’t any law that said he had to wear them only on Sunday.

Maybe it would really be all right, and these uptown characters wouldn’t give him any trouble. Maybe they wouldn’t notice that he was different, that he didn’t belong.

But no. In no time at all they’d have him sized up, they’d see him for what he was. Perhaps they’d try to be polite and not say anything, but he’d know what they were thinking. It would show in their eyes, no matter how they tried to hide it.

The thing to do, he told himself, was take this goddamn camera and throw it down a sewer or someplace. Just get rid of it.

And there it was again, the stabbing thought that he didn’t have the guts to face the situation squarely. He was frightened, that was all.

He walked on down Vernon Street, wondering what to do with the camera.

Arriving at the Kerrigan house, he opened the front door and walked into the parlor. He glanced at the sofa, where Tom was snoring loudly, holding a half-empty beer bottle, the picture of utter contentment.

The only sound in the parlor was the noise coming from the kitchen, the clatter of dishes, the loud voices of Lola and Bella. At first he paid no attention to what they were saying, and his thoughts played idly with the idea that he ought to go in there and get some supper. He wondered if there was anything warm on the stove.

He started across the parlor, headed toward the kitchen, and then he heard Bella yelling, “Just wait till I see that two-timing sneak. Wait till I get my hands on him.”

“You’ll leave him alone,” Lola shouted at her daughter. “If you know what’s good for you, you won’t start anything.”

“It’s already started,” Bella raged. “What do I look like, an idiot or something? You think I’ll let him push me around and make a fool of me? I warned him what would happen if he messed around. I’m gonna show that louse I mean what I say.”

“Not in this house you won’t,” Lola shouted.

“The hell I won’t,” Bella blazed. “And you won’t stop me, neither.”

There was the smacking sound of a hand against a face. He heard Bella screaming. Then another smack. And Bella screamed again.

He heard Lola say, “Talk back again and I’ll slap you so hard you’ll go through the wall.”

Then it was quiet in the kitchen. Kerrigan decided to wait just a little while longer before having supper, and perhaps Bella would be cooled off entirely by the time he was ready to eat.

He walked down the hall and into his room and took off his clothes. Then he went into the bathroom, filled the tub, and climbed in and soaped his body. In his room again, he put on a clean shirt and shorts and socks, opened the closet door and took a gray worsted suit off the hanger. It was his Sunday suit, the only suit he owned, and it needed pressing, some sewing here and there, and one of the buttons was missing. As he stood before the mirror, pulling at the lapels and trying to stretch the fabric to get rid of the wrinkles, he wished he had a better suit to wear. And while the thought ran through his mind, he was slowly lowering the camera into the jacket pocket.

He slipped a tie under his collar, knotted it three times before he was satisfied, then leaned close to the mirror and gave his wet combed hair a few final pats with his palms. Stepping back from the mirror, he studied himself from various angles, frowned appraisingly, then shrugged and decided that it would have to do.

Coming into the kitchen, he saw Lola arranging the dishes on a shelf. Bella was at the sink with a towel in her hands. The moment she saw him, her face darkened and reddened and fire came into her eyes. She took a deep breath and opened her mouth to say something. But from the other side of the room she saw her mother watching her. She took another deep breath and shut her mouth tightly and closed her eyes, grimly trying to control her temper.

Lola was smiling at Kerrigan and saying, “Want something to eat?”

He nodded and sat down at the splintered table, which had several match books under one leg to keep it balanced. Bella had turned back to the sink as if she had no idea he was in the room. But he could hear her breathing heavily and he knew she was having a hard time holding back the rage that strained to break loose.

Lola picked up a large spoon and moved majestically toward the stove. She was an excellent cook, extremely proud of it, and always anxious to prove it. She bent over the stove, studied the contents of a huge pot and a couple of smaller ones, and murmured, “It’ll take just a minute to warm up.”

“No hurry,” Kerrigan said. He lit a cigarette and leaned back.

Lola was stirring the spoon in the pots, lifting the spoon to her mouth, testing the flavor of the beef stew and the rice and the summer squash.

“Needs pepper,” Lola murmured. She looked at Bella and said, “Get me the pepper.”

“Let him get it.” Bella spaced the words distinctly.

“I told you to get it,” Lola said.

Bella sucked air in between her teeth. She moved away from the sink, opened the kitchen cabinet, and grabbed at the pepper shaker. She brought it to the table and slammed it down in front of Kerrigan.