E. Doctorow - Loon Lake

I sat on the kitchen table and read the waiver. The party of the first part was Mrs. Lyle James and all her heirs and assignees.

The party of the second part was Bennett Autobody Corporation and its agents, C.I.S., Inc.

I said to Sandy, “You know what C.I.S. stands for?”

She shook her head.

Clara cleared her throat. “It means Crapo Industrial Services,” she said. She took the baby from me. She hugged her and began to pace the room, hugging the baby and saying soft things to her.

“Mah milk’s dried up,” Sandy said. “She’ll have to get on that Carnation?”

“Red worked for Crapo Industrial Services,” I said to Sandy. “Did you know that?”

“Nossir.”

“Neither did I. Why should it surprise me?” I said. “Clara? Does it surprise you?”

Clara didn’t answer.

“No? Then why should it surprise me?” I said. “After all, a corporation like Bennett Autobody needs its industrial services. Spying is an industrial service, isn’t it? I suppose strikebreaking is an industrial service. Paying off cops, bringing in scabs. Let’s see, have I left anything out?”

“Why don’t you take it easy,” Clara said.

“I’m trying to,” I said. “I’m just one poor hobo boy. What else can I do?” I went out to the privy. The sky was clear but a wind was blowing dry snow in gusts along the ground. I was still pissing blood. When I spit, I spit blood. Someone who had business connections with F. W. Bennett was big-time. Tommy Crapo was big-time. Surely he did not even know the name Lyle Red James. It was a coincidence that the fucking hillbilly who lived next door to me was an operative of Crapo Industrial Services. That was all it was. It was not a plot against me. It was not the whole world ganging up on one poor hobo boy.

But in my mind I saw the death-benefit man stepping into a phone booth and placing a call.

I went back inside.

“Can you eat anything?” Clara said. She spoke in a hushed voice that irritated me. “Do you want some coffee?”

“Sit down,” I said. I faced her across the kitchen table. “You knew that joker.”

She folded her hands in her lap. She sighed.

“Well, who is he?”

“Just some guy. I used to see him around.”

“A friend of yours?”

“Oh Christ, no. I don’t think I ever spoke five words to him.”

“What’s his name?”

She shrugged.

“What’s his name, Clara?”

“I don’t remember. Buster. Yeah, I think they called him that.”

“Buster. Well, did Buster say anything? Did he recognize you?”

She didn’t answer.

“Clara, for Christ’s sake — do you think he recognized you!”

Clara bowed her head. “He may have.”

“Okay,” I said. I stood up. “Fine. That’s what I wanted to know. See, if we know what we’re dealing with we know what to do. Am I right? We need to know what the situation is in order to know what to do. Now. Is Tommy Crapo in Jacksontown? You tell me.”

“How should I know? I don’t think so.”

“Well, where would he be?”

She shrugged. “He could be anywhere. Chicago. He lives in Chicago.”

“Good, fine. When Buster calls Mr. Tommy Crapo in Chicago to tell him he’s found Miss Clara Lukaćs, what is Mr. Tommy Crapo likely to do?”

“I don’t like this. I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

I leaned over the table. “Hey, Clara? You want to talk about us? You want to tell me how you love me? What is Mr. Tommy Crapo likely to do?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is he going to hang up the phone and laugh and call in his manicurist? Or is he going to come get you?”

She wouldn’t answer.

“I mean what happened at Loon Lake? Why did he leave you there? Did you do something to make him mad? Or was it just a business thing?”

She slumped against the back of the chair. Her mouth opened. But she didn’t say anything.

“Well?”

“You fuckin’ bastard,” she said.

“Oh, swell,” I said. “Let’s hear it. Step a little closer folks. Sandy!” I shouted. “Come in here and listen to this. Hear the lady Clara speak!” We heard the front door close.

“You’re terrific, you know?” Clara said, her eyes brimming. “That kid has just lost her husband.”

“Don’t I know it. And what a terrific guy he was. They’re coming at me right and left, all these terrific guys. They run in packs, all your terrific friends and colleagues.”

I ran next door.

Sandy James had put the baby in her carriage and was standing in the middle of the room pushing the carriage to and fro very fast.

“Sandy,” I said, “I’m very sorry for all this and when we have the time we’ll talk about it if you want to. I’ll tell you everything I can. Did Red ever give you instructions who to call or what to do in case something happened to him?”

“Nossir.”

“Does he have family in Tennessee, anyone who should be notified? Anyone who could come help you?”

She shook her head.

“How about your family?”

Her lower lip was protruding. “They cain’t do nothin.”

“Well, did Red carry life insurance?”

She shook her head.

“Do you know what that is?”

She shook her head.

“Well, where does he keep the family papers? I mean like the kid’s birth certificate. He must keep that somewhere.”

That’s when Sandy James began to cry. She tried not to. She kept rubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands as if she could press the tears back in.

I looked around the room. With Buster’s tidying, the parlor was not too badly messed now. I began to go through it myself, opening the desk drawers, tossing things around. What was in my mind? I thought if Red James had not told his wife of an insurance policy, he would be likely to have one. I was looking with absolute conviction in the clarity of my thought for an insurance policy but why it seemed to me the first order of business I couldn’t have said. I supposed it would lead to something. Different pieces of Lyle Red James had been lifted — his espionage self by the union avengers, his union self by the industrial-service hoods, surely there must be something left for me, something of value to me, something he owed me. Maybe there was a strongbox and maybe along with a birth certificate and an insurance policy there would be cash. How owed me something. He owed me a broken arm and a battered face and a considerable portion of my pride. How owed me my abused girl, he owed me the care and protection of his own wife and child. He owed me a lot. I ran into the bedroom and began to go through the closet. Every move I made was painful, but the more I searched — for what? where was it? — the more frenzied I became. My body had thought it out: I needed to get us all off Railroad Street. I needed to save Clara. I needed to get Sandy James and her baby home to Tennessee. I needed the money for all of this. I think I must have whimpered or moaned as I searched. I was in a cold sweat. At one point from the corner of my eyes I saw the two women standing in the door watching me. I took the sling off my arm so that I could move around more easily. Without the sling I felt the true weight of my cast. I thought of the weight as everything that had to be done before I could get out of Jacksontown. I wanted to shake this cement cast from my bones as I wanted to shake free of this weight of local life and disaster. None of it was mine, I thought, none of it was justly mine. I had stopped over. That was all. I wanted to be going again. I wanted to be back at my best, out of everyone’s reach, in flight. But I had all this weight and I felt there was no time for condolence or ceremony or grief or shock or tears, there was hardly time for what I had to do in order to lift it from me so that we could get free.