Donna Tartt - The Little Friend

Harriet observed this mysterious toil without being very curious about it. Hely could entertain himself for hours by gawking at laborers on the street, and if he was really interested he went up and pestered them with questions but cargo, workmen, equipment—all this bored Harriet. What interested her was Curtis. If what Harriet had heard all her life was true, Curtis’s brothers weren’t good to him. Sometimes Curtis showed up at school with eerie red bruises on his arms and legs, bruises of a color peculiar to Curtis alone, the color of cranberry sauce. People said that he was just more delicate than he looked, and bruised easily, just like he caught cold more easily than other kids; but teachers sometimes sat him down all the same, and asked questions about the bruises—what exact questions, or Curtis’s exact answers, Harriet didn’t know; but among the children there was a vague but widespread belief that Curtis was mistreated at home. He had no parents, only the brothers and a tottery old grandmother who complained that she was too feeble to look out for him. Often he arrived at school with no jacket in winter, and no lunch money, and no lunch (or else some unwholesome lunch, like a jar of jelly, which had to be taken away from him). The grandmother’s chronic excuses about all this provoked incredulous glances among the teachers. Alexandria Academy, after all, was a private school. If Curtis’s family could afford the tuition—a thousand dollars a year—why couldn’t they afford lunch for him, and a coat?

Harriet felt sorry for Curtis—but from afar. Good-natured as he was, his broad, awkward movements made people nervous. Little kids were scared of him; girls wouldn’t sit by him on the school bus because he tried to touch their faces and clothes and hair. And though he had not yet spotted her, she dreaded to think what would happen if he did. Almost automatically, staring at the ground and feeling ashamed of herself even as she did it, she crossed to the other side of the street.

The screen door banged again and the two men came clattering back down the steps with another crate, just as a long, slick, pearl-gray Lincoln Continental swung around the corner. Mr.Dial, in profile, swept grandly past. To Harriet’s amazement, he turned into the driveway.

Having heaved the last box into the back of the truck, and pulled the tarp over it, the two men were climbing back up the stairs at a more creaky and comfortable pace. The car door opened: snick . “Eugene?” called Mr. Dial, climbing out of the car and brushing right past Curtis, apparently without seeing him. “ Eugene . Half a second.”

The man with the gray ducktail had stiffened. When he turned Harriet saw—with a nightmarish jolt—the splashy red mark on his face, like a handprint in red paint.

“I sure am glad to run into you out here! You’re a tough man to get aholt of, Eugene,” said Mr. Dial, heading up the stairs after them uninvited. To the young, wiry man—whose eyes were rolling, as if he was about to bolt—he extended a hand. “Roy Dial, Dial Chevrolet.”

“This is—This is Loyal Reese,” said the older man, visibly uncomfortable, fingering the edge of the red mark on his cheek.

“Reese?” Mr. Dial surveyed the stranger pleasantly. “Not from around here, are you?”

The young man stammered something in response, and though Harriet couldn’t make out the words, his accent was clear enough: a high, hill-country voice, nasal and bright.

“Ah! Glad to have you with us, Loyal…. Just a visit, yes? Because,” Mr. Dial said, holding up a palm to forestall any protestations, “there are the terms of the lease. Single occupancy. No harm, is there, in making sure that we understand each other, Gene?” Mr. Dial folded his arms, much the way he did in Harriet’s Sunday-school class. “By the way, how have you been enjoying the new screen door I put in for you?”

Eugene managed a smile and said: “It’s nice, Mr. Dial. It works better than the otherun.” Between the scar, and the smile, he looked like a good-natured ghoul from a horror movie.

“And the water heater?” said Mr. Dial, screwing his hands together. “Now, that’s a lot faster now, I know, heating your bath water, and all. Got all the hot water you can use now, don’t you? Ha ha ha.”

“Well sir, Mr. Dial …”

“Eugene, if you don’t mind, I’ll cut to the chase here,” said Mr. Dial, turning his head cozily to the side. “It’s in your interest as well as mine to keep our lines of communication open, don’t you agree?”

Eugene looked confused.

“Now, the last two times I’ve stopped by to see you you’ve denied me access to this rental unit. Help me out here, Eugene,” he said—holding up a palm, expertly blocking Eugene’s interruption. “What’s going on here? How can we improve on this situation?”

“Mr. Dial, I kindly don’t know what you mean.”

“I’m sure I don’t need to remind you, Eugene, that as your landlord, I have the right to enter the premises as I see fit. Let’s help each other out here, shall we?” He was moving up the stairs. Young Loyal Reese—looking more shocked than ever—was quietly backing up the steps to the apartment.

“I kindly don’t understand the problem, Mr. Dial! If I done something wrong—”

“Eugene, I’ll be frank about my concerns. I’ve received complaints about an odor. When I dropped by the other day, I noticed it myself.”

“If you’d like to step inside a minute, Mr. Dial?”

“I certainly would like to do that, Eugene, if you don’t mind. Because you see it’s like this. I’ve got certain responsibilities to all my tenants at a property.”

“Hat! ”

Harriet jumped. Curtis was weaving from side to side and waving to her with his eyes closed.

“Blind,” he called to her.

Mr. Dial turned, halfway. “Well, hello there, Curtis! Careful, there,” he said, brightly, stepping aside with an expression of slight distaste.

At this, Curtis swung around, with a long goose-step, and began to stomp across the street towards Harriet with his arms straight out in front of him, hands dangling, like Frankenstein.

“ Munster ,” he gurgled. “Ooo, munstrer .”

Harriet was mortified. But Mr. Dial hadn’t seen her. He turned away and—still talking (“No, wait a second, Eugene, I really do want you to understand my position here”)—he headed up the steps in a very determined fashion as the two men retreated nervously before him.

Curtis stopped in front of Harriet. Before she could say anything, his eyes popped open. “Tie my shoes,” he demanded.

“They’re tied, Curtis.” This was an habitual exchange. Because Curtis didn’t know how to tie his shoes, he was always going up to kids on the playground and asking for help. Now, it was how he started a conversation, whether his shoes needed tying or not.

With no warning, Curtis shot out an arm and grabbed Harriet by the wrist. “Gotchoo,” he burbled happily.

The next thing she knew, he was towing her firmly across the street. “Stop,” she said crossly, and tried to yank free. “Let me go!”

But Curtis plowed on. He was very strong. Harriet stumbled along behind him. “ Stop ,” she cried, and kicked him in the shin as hard as she could.

Curtis stopped. He slackened his moist, meaty grip around her wrist. His expression was blank and rather frightening but then he reached over and patted her on the head: a big, flat, splayfingered pat that didn’t quite connect, like a baby trying to pat a kitten. “You strong, Hat,” he said.

Harriet stepped away and rubbed her wrist. “Don’t do that any more,” she mumbled. “Jerking people around.”

“Me a good munster, Hat!” growled Curtis, in his grumbly monster voice. “Friendly!” He patted his stomach. “Eat only cookies!”