John MacDonald - Slam the Big Door

Troy woke up at eleven the next morning. He didn’t seem either surprised or grateful to see Mike, or particularly interested in the plan of going up to West Hudson. Mike could detect neither shame nor remorse. Just a dullness, an impenetrable apathy. Grady had donated some elderly but clean clothing to the cause. He had said it wasn’t necessary to have them back. After the hot bath and the permissible two ounces, Troy was steady enough to shave himself.

Mike made a few futile attempts to start casual conversations on the way north, and then gave up. He did not take Troy home. He took him to the office of a friend who was a doctor. After the examination, Troy was taken directly to a rest home fifteen miles from town, a place which specialized in such problems. Three weeks later Mike brought him back to the house on Killian Street. Buttons received him politely, and with a measured amount of warmth.

“When you want to talk,” Mike said, “I’ll listen. In the meantime you can stay here until you’re well.”

“It’s a lot for you people to do.”

“Don’t worry about that.”

“One thing you may be glad to know. They told me out there. I’m not a genuine, honest-to-God alcoholic. This was more like a nervous breakdown. So you don’t have to lock up the liquor. I thought you’d like to know that. They said I can drink socially again, if I feel like it. But not this year. It won’t matter a damn to me to see other people drinking.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll stay out of your way as much as I can. Don’t figure on trying to pull me into social things. I’m not ready.”

“All right.”

“I’ll go to work soon as I can.”

“Don’t try to rush it.”

“Maybe you could do one more thing. I don’t know where the hell I stand. I don’t even know if the house was sold. That goes into the settlement. You could check with George Broman, 114 East Forty-third. He’s my lawyer and tax guy. It’ll be interesting to find out if there’s anything left.”

“How about alimony?”

“It’s being set up on the basis of a percentage of earnings. That’s lucky for me, and tough on Bunny. She’s got people to help her, though. She gets it until she marries again. And I’ve been wondering about mail, Mike. I didn’t...”

“I fixed that up. They were saving a bunch of stuff at the hotel. It’s here now. I changed your mailing address to here. They didn’t want you getting mail out there. Do you want to see it now?”

“No. Not now. I’ll look at it later on.”

He slept a great deal in those first weeks, and as the spring days grew warmer he would sun himself in the backyard. Later he began to take long walks. Buttons took pride in putting the pounds back on him. He spoke little and seldom smiled, though he was not irritable or sullen. He was good with the boys. As his strength came back he began to do minor repairs around the house — fixing doors that stuck, ripping up and replacing asphalt tile in the storeroom. He was good with his hands, neat and quick.

The divorce became final. George Broman ascertained that, after income tax refunds had come in, and after Bunny’s settlement, Troy Jamison had a balance of nearly thirteen thousand dollars. After it was transferred to a savings account at West Hudson National, Troy insisted, despite Mike’s protests, on paying the medical expenses Mike had incurred on his behalf.

In late June of 1953, Mike and Buttons got a letter from Bunny, postmarked Colorado Springs.

Dearest Ones ,

You may cluck and shake your heads wisely as my entire family did, and you can feel hurt and left out, just as they did, and about all I can do is apologize and say it was all terribly sudden .

But not too sudden, believe me. I’m Mrs. Robert Parker Linder, and I’ve been married four whole days. Bob’s ranch is twenty miles from the Springs, and it’s half dude and half working ranch. We met in Reno — both there on the same mission. We’ve gone through all the necessary soul-searching and we’re confident that it isn’t purely rebound. I’m very happy. The country here is glorious. Bob is forty, a big, slow, sweet guy with the world’s best disposition and a grin that can turn me to butter. My gals adore him, and his son, Jaimie, age sixteen, seems to think I am a wondrous thing. You can judge how messy his situation was and how blameless he was by the fact he divorced her, and he got total custody of their only child .

Buttons, I haven’t heard from you for almost a month so I do not know whether Troy is still there with you. I hope not. You’ve had more than your share of giving and forgiving. I feel sort of queer about writing this news to him. So if he is there would you please tell him, or, if not, drop him a note. He will probably be relieved to know he is off the alimony hook. I don’t want to wish problems on you but I would rather he heard that way than more indirectly .

As I wrote you before, Troy has court permission to see the girls at his request, but not oftener than six times a year, and for not longer than eight hours at a time. You could give him this address and tell him that when he gets back on his feet and wants to see them, he can write to me and we can make arrangements .

All my love to both of you ,

The letter arrived at lunchtime. After Buttons read it she gave Mike an odd look, and then handed it to Troy to read. He was halfway through his lunch. He read it quickly, got up without a word and left the house. Mike then read it. Troy was not back by the time they went to bed. He had his own key.

At three in the morning Buttons shook Mike awake and said, “I think he just came in, honey. He may be dreadfully drunk. You better go check.”

He put on his robe and met Troy in the upstairs hallway. Troy was not drunk. He whispered to avoid waking the boys.

“Sorry I took off like that, Mike. It was rude.”

“Where have you been?”

“Walking. Thinking. A hell of a long walk.”

As Mike looked at him he sensed that Troy had changed during that walk. There was more alertness in his expression. The brooding look was hidden. Not entirely gone. But not as obvious.

“I had to get used to her being married to somebody else,” Troy whispered.

“Sure. I know. Well... good night.”

He went back to bed and told Buttons. As he was going back to sleep he realized that Troy would soon be gone.

Two days later, on a Sunday afternoon, Troy told Mike his plans. “I know I can’t get back into advertising. Maybe I could get some crummy little job with a small-town agency, but I don’t want that. My father was a builder. Not a big one. Small houses, and I don’t think he ever had more than eight men working for him at one time. I worked for him for four straight summers. I’ve got a tiny bit of capital. That’s what I’m going to do. It’s the only thing I can think of.”

“Here in West Hudson?”

“No. I’ve decided on Florida. The west coast. I’m going to go down there and hire out to a contractor down there and learn what’s new in the field, and what special local problems they have. When I’m ready, I’ll try it on my own.”

“All cured?”

“Thanks to you, Mike. And Buttons. I’ll never forget it. It’s not... a total cure, I guess. But the best I can manage.”

“What happened, Troy? Is that a fair question?”

“It’s a fair question. I just wish I could give you an answer. I don’t know what the hell happened. Everything was fine. Overnight everything went sour for me. I hated the work and the city and myself. I just plain stopped giving a damn. Like a motor stopping. Running down. I don’t know.”

“I saw that woman.”

“I know you did. I remember seeing you in front of her place. Memory of that period is all... misty. And I don’t get things in the right order. But I remember seeing you there. Running away from you. But she didn’t do it. Everything had slipped a long, long way before I found her. She just helped me find bottom — slide all the way down.” He managed a faint smile. “It was easy.”