Дональд Уэстлейк: Collected Stories

After a moment, Tinker’s four horsemen arrived on the scene. With difficulty, they dragged Veronica off the now unconscious Tinker, and held him securely. Veronica gave no resistance. His fight was finished; his honor saved. His opponent lay, vanquished, on the gory field of battle. Veronica was satisfied. Then someone hit him in the face.

That was when Veronica started fighting. He wrenched his right arm free, and slammed the boy holding his left arm twice in the nose. By that time, the other boy had the idea, and immediately let go of the arm to sit on the ground and hold his nose.

Veronica threw his fists about with wild abandon. He felt a piercing pain in his stomach and head, coupled with a whole series of pains that seemed to cover every inch of his body. Once, he found himself on his back, with several dark shapes above him. Using all his energy, he slashed out mightily with his feet and saw sunlight once more. Another time, he realized that he was on his feet again, with a hank of someone’s hair in his left hand. Without clearly realizing it, he pushed down with his left hand, at the same time sending his knee whistling upward. The result was a solid crunch, a muffled ouch, and a loose handful of hair.

Then, as suddenly as it began, the fight was over. Veronica looked about himself wonderingly. About a half a block down the street, three boys ran with the speed of a hunted fox, and, trying to appear as inconspicuous as possible, a fourth boy crouched under die bus, still holding his nose. On the ground, arms outstretched, face to the sun, was Tinker. Veronica looked at the bus driver, who was still hanging halfway out the window, and said, softly, calmly, and with utmost dignity, “You may drive on, now.”

The driver didn’t say, “Yes, sir.” Instead, he leaped from the window to the driver’s seat in one bound, hitting his head in the procedure, and drove off without even closing the bus doors. He drove three blocks in first, and didn’t let one child off in eight blocks, for which act he heard long and loud when he returned to the garage that night.

When Veronica reached home at a walk for the first time in his school career, he was just beginning to understand what had happened. He had beaten up all the tough guys, not one at a time, but all together. He couldn’t understand it, but lie didn’t let that worry him. He’d beaten them, his future was secure, and he felt very happy about the whole thing.

When his mother caught sight of him, she didn’t quite share his joy. She was used to the normal amounts of cuts and bruises, but nothing like the mess that walked up the porch steps, and said, with her son’s voice, “I won, Mom.”

Mom had difficulty staying vertical. She grasped the porch-rail firmly, and said to the tattered, smeared wreck before her, “William!”

William looked up at her with shining eyes, and said, “My name’s not William, Mom.” For the first time he was proud of that nickname. “It’s Veronica.”

That was when Mom fainted.

Uncertainty reigned his heart.

I got home late from work Tuesday. My sister was in the kitchen, preparing supper, just like every other Tuesday; my mother was at a meeting, just like every other Tuesday; but one thing was different. My father was in bed. He wasn’t pale; if anything he was too red. He looked exhausted, wornout. The first thing f thought of was his heart. He had had a heart attack the day after Christmas in ’47. I stood there, at the foot of the bed, listening to my sister rushing around the kitchen heating soup and looking at my father stretched out on the bed.

“What’s the matter. Dad?”

He sighed a little, as though he were straining against something, then smiled and tried to sit up. “I don’t know. I’ve got the shivers, and my whole head hurts.”

“Should I call the doctor?”

“No.” He had to stop after every few words to take a breath. “I’ll just rest for a while. I feel drained. I need some sleep, that’s all.”

My sister came in then, with a tray for my father. There was soup and tea and applesauce. “Your dinner,” she said, without looking at me. She had no thought for me then. Her father was sick.

I went out to my room off the kitchen and threw my coat on the bed. I went back to the kitchen and ate. I don’t know what I ate.

After I finished eating, I went back to my father’s room. My sister stopped me in the doorway. “Are you going out tonight?”

I was surprised. “Sure. It’s Hallowe’en.”

“Who are you going out with?” She had that way about her, commanding and yet not imperial.

“I don’t know. Whoever’s around, I guess.”

She backed me up against the wall. “Someone’s got to stay with Dad.”

“What’s wrong with you?” I had no place to go really, but I didn’t want to be commanded to stay home.

“I’ve got a date.” She knew she’d won; I never had talked her down.

“All right. But don’t stay out late.”

She walked past me to the kitchen without a word. She’d won, and that was that.

She left about seven-fifteen, and about quarter to eight my father got up. I was in the parlor watching television with all the lights turned off, because I didn’t want anyone ringing the bell for handouts. I heard my father in the kitchen and ran out. He had the little light over the sink on and was getting a drink of water. He looked a couple of hundred years old. He was shaking; not just his hands, but his whole body. I got him back to bed as quickly as I could. I could feel him shaking as I helped him into the bedroom. As he got into bed he said, “Call Doctor Heinz.” His voice was so low, so pitifully weak, and he had to stop between each word to breathe. His face was flushed, and his copper-colored hair lay limp and bedraggled on his forehead.

I rushed to the telephone in the dining room without even bothering to answer. I found the doctor’s number in the little hook beside the telephone and dialed. When the busy signal blared into my ear I almost fell. I held onto the telephone stand for a moment, then dialed again. I must have dialed twenty times in two minutes before I finally got the line. The doctor himself answered the phone. I told him what was the matter and he said he’d be right over.

A little after eight my mother came home. I heard her open the front door and come up the stairs. I opened the door as she reached the top step. “Dad’s sick.”

She looked first surprised, then alarmed, and then scared. “Did you call the doctor?”

I nodded. “He should be here in a little while.”

We went out to the bedroom and peered together into the darkness. I said, “Dad?” There was no answer. I felt odd then. I felt like screaming or running or doing something, doing anything. I couldn’t just stand still. But I did. My mother whispered, “He must be asleep. He’s breathing regularly.”

I didn’t breathe a sigh of relief. I didn’t breathe at all. I just listened. After a moment, I could hear my father’s breathing, deep, regular, but too loud. He didn’t breathe as though he were asleep: he breathed as though he were unconscious. Then the doorbell rang.

In three leaps I was in the kitchen. I pressed the buzzer and ran to the front door. I prayed it wasn’t kids, having a happy Hallowe’en. I prayed it was the doctor. It was.

The doctor came in, took oil his coat, and I led him to my father’s room. When I turned on the light, my father opened his eyes a little bit and squinted against the light. The doctor went over to the bed, opened his bag, and began talking to my father, the way doctors always talk to patients. As I left the bedroom, my father said, “It’s all over. My chest and my legs and under my arms and my head.”