Ed Gorman - The Day The Music Died

I had no doubt she’d catch up.

She seemed to know instantly that something was afoot. She said, “What’s going on?”

I started to say nothing but he said, “He wants to know about Susan.”

For just a moment, her dark eyes showed pain and faint embarrassment and I felt sorry for her.

When she didn’t have Proust to hide behind, she was almost human. But then instead of being the girl from Mt. Vernon, Iowa that she was, she struck a pose. “You wouldn’t expect someone like him to understand, would you, Steve?”

“I guess not.”

“I saw him at the bus depot one day looking at girlie magazines.”

“Yes,” I said, “but I had a copy of Ezra Pound inside the magazine.”

She whipped off black gloves and slapped them on top of a glass counter that housed rare books.

She walked right up to me. “Why don’t you leave?”

“Because I want to find out what happened between them.”

She stared at me and shook her head. “What do you think happened between them, McCain? Or do you want me to draw you a picture? They had an affair. It wasn’t very long, and I doubt it was very worthwhile, but Steve loves French novels and so to him it was very important.”

I didn’t know which of us to feel embarrassed for at this point. Maybe I felt embarrassed for all three of us.

But she wasn’t finished. “She had big tits and a very nice smile and she loved the way he read poetry to her in bed. He used to read poetry to me in bed, too, back when we were courting.

He’s especially good with every. every. cummings. It’s a better aphrodisiac than wine. But then, I’d hardly expect you to understand that, McCain.”

“Did you kill her, Steve?” I asked.

He did something he shouldn’t have. He looked scared. His eyes clung to his wife’s for help. I’d rattled him.

“Did he kill her?” she asked. “Of course, he didn’t kill her. What the hell are you talking about, anyway? Kenny Whitney killed her.”

“You’re sure of that?” I said.

“Yes, I am,” she said. “Quite sure.”

The clerk came back. She wore a fitted gray winter coat. There was something Russian about it, which was probably the effect she wanted.

“It’s my break time. I thought I’d go get a Danish.”

“Fine,” Eileen said. “But yesterday you took twenty minutes. Our agreement is fifteen.”

The girl’s gaze met Steve’s. He looked away quickly, not wanting to anger his wife but appearing to be sympathetic to the girl. The girl left.

“You probably guessed,” Eileen said, “Steve and she are at the “eye” stage of their relationship. Nothing serious yet. Just those wonderful little accidental brushes against each other in cramped spaces, and the occasional hand on the shoulder or on the elbow. Nothing overt, as I say. But they’re slowly getting there.”

“Why the hell you do have to say things like that, Eileen?” Steve said, miserably.

“Because they’re true,” she said. “And isn’t that what we’ve dedicated ourselves to, Steve?

Truth above all? And that’s what McCain wants, too, isn’t it, McCain? Truth.”

I wanted to run out the door. I’d learned far more about their relationship than I’d wanted to.

I hated her for being so pathetically strong, and him for being so ruthlessly weak. He was a lot more dangerous than she was. He’d pull you down and destroy you without even understanding what he was doing.

“Anyway,” she said, nodding toward the front door and the girl who just left. “She has bad ankles. And that’s a moral failing of some kind, don’t you think, McCain? Bad ankles? At least Susan had wonderful ankles along with those breasts of hers.”

She picked up her gloves from the top of the glass rare bookcase. “I think I’ll go make some very strong tea now.”

She left, sweeping her cape off as she walked to the back.

“When’s the last time you saw Susan?”

“You don’t really expect me to talk now, do you, after everything Eileen said?”

“When was the last time you saw Susan?”

Fear was in his eyes again. “Why the hell are you asking me these questions?”

The front door opened. A matronly woman in a fur coat came in. She moved with ease for a woman of her age and size. She came directly to Steve. “Eileen called yesterday and said my D. H. Lawrence books were in.” She smiled at me. She had a nice smile, actually. “They’re not for me, they’re for my niece, believe it or not. She loves D.

H. Lawrence. And she’s seen La Dolce Vita three times. I guess she’s sort of a beatnik. They live in Chicago and her husband’s in advertising. He’s a beatnik on weekends.”

“I’ll get the books, Mrs. Beamer.”

I waited around, looking at the new Hemingway editions Scribner’s had published over the past year. If I ever got money, these were the kinds of editions I would buy. Steve came back but two more customers came in.

There was no point waiting anymore.

I walked to the front door. The matron with the D. H. Lawrence books was just ahead of me.

“I hope I don’t get arrested for having pornography,” she laughed.

“I’m a lawyer,” I said. “Call me if you need me.”

She giggled naughtily.

It was nearing lunchtime. I decided to stop by my folks’. I started to go get my ragtop.

Somebody said, “Hey. Hey, you!”

When I turned, I saw the girl from Leopold Bloom’s running to catch up with me.

“I overheard what you were talking about with Steve. About Susan Whitney?”

I nodded.

“He had this real battle with her on the phone the day before she died.”

“How do you know it was her?”

“Oh, it was her all right. He was obsessed.

He called her all the time and threatened her. He couldn’t let go.”

I thought about what Eileen had said about this girl and Steve. “Eileen thinks you and Steve are about to have an affair.”

She laughed. Her face was tinted red from the cold. It was a healthy and appealing red. “An affair? Are you kidding? They both give me the creeps. All that melodramatic artsy-craftsy bullshit.” She leaned closer.

“She’s got a stack of romance novels in the back she’s always reading and he’s got a bunch of dirty paperbacks. You hear the crap she gave me about a fifteen-minute break? They don’t know it yet but this is my last day. I’ve got a better job in Iowa City.”

“Well, good luck, and thanks for telling me that.”

She laughed again. “I think it’d be cool if Steve had killed her. At least he would’ve done something with his life. What a douche bag that guy is.” Then, “Say, do you know Maggie Yates?”

The name jolted me. I wondered if she knew about Maggie Yates and me.

But she quickly went on. “I saw Maggie and Susan in the store together a few times. You might ask Maggie about her. She’s kind of crazy, but I like her.”

“Maybe I should look her up.”

“You know where she lives?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Yeah, I know where she lives.”

I should. I’d slept there often enough.

“Thanks for your help,” I said.

She gave me a pert little salute, cute as hell, and then turned and walked away. Iowa City already had a million great-looking girls.

Why couldn’t she stay here?

The colors in housing developments always get me. Orchid and mauve and puce, among others.

Colors I don’t associate with houses. The other thing that always gets me is how many Tv antennas there are. The houses look as if they’re hooked up for direct contact with Mars.

But despite my misgivings about housing developments-ll villages whose dynamics Nathaniel Hawthorne would have understood very well -I was glad for Mom and Dad that they had this place. Mom not only got a new place out of the Knolls but also a garbage disposal, a telephone with an extension in another part of the house, a sundeck and a full basement. Dad got a garage, a big backyard and a look of pride when he sat on the small front porch with his can of Falstaff and listened to the Cubs on the radio.