William McGivern - Savage Streets

“Yes, I understand,” Farrell said. Norton wasn’t exaggerating, he knew; it would be hell, all right; not the big, well-publicized sort of hell that writers made dramas of, but a quiet little hell, almost funny in its smallness, its insignificance. But just as unendurable as the bigger ones.

“I counted on you, John,” Norton said, with a shy and ghastly smile. “You know I respect you — you must know that now. One evening Janey and I asked her father and mother for dinner. And two couples from the bank. It was like Janey’s mother’s home almost, the kind of thing I’d always wanted. You know what I mean? The men kept their coats on during dinner, and we had coffee in the living room afterward. Well just then the doorbell rang and my brothers walked in. They’d been playing baseball and they just decided to drop in for a beer. They didn’t have the brains to see it was a special party. They made themselves at home and kidded me about having coffee in the living room — like I was trying to high-hat them or something. They meant it to be funny, I know, but that was the end. I was mad, and so was Janey. The next day I went to see them and I told them how things had to be from now on. About calling in advance, I mean.” Norton sighed wearily. “There was a fight. They laughed at me. Said I was stuck-up, said that Janey’s mother was a snob — she hadn’t been very friendly to my mother before the wedding, you see, and they raked that up, bringing up everything that was cheap and dirty...” Norton’s voice trailed away and he stared blankly at Farrell. “I never saw them after that. I haven’t seen them to this day. They don’t even know where I live. I never wrote to them after I moved to New York.”

“Well, they’re probably as sorry about it as you are,” Farrell said.

“Ernie was my hero,” Norton said. “He used to give me money. Even when I was too little to know the difference between coins. He’d give me a penny and a nickel and a dime, so I’d have one of each. Wasn’t that nice of him?”

“Yes, it was,” Farrell said, and nodded to the bartender for a check.

“I was never sorry about it,” Norton said, in a blurred, hopeless voice. “I was never sorry about anything until last night. Nobody can be that bad and hope to be forgiven. Isn’t that true, John? I respect you. Tell me the truth.”

Farrell paid for their drinks. “We can talk it over on the train,” he said.

“Will you tell me on the train, John? How I can be forgiven, I mean?”

“Sure thing.”

“Why was I never sorry, John?”

“Give me your hat check. We’ve got a nice long ride to talk things over.”

Norton fell asleep on the train. In the taxi to Faircrest he sat in a heavy withdrawn silence, occasionally shifting his position to light a cigarette or rub both hands over his pale face. Farrell was grateful for the silence; he had had enough of remorse and guilt.

But by the time they reached their homes Norton seemed to have recovered some of his mild good humor. He thanked Farrell politely, said he hoped he hadn’t been a nuisance and walked quickly into his house. Farrell paid off the driver and stood for a moment breathing the cool night air. There was no reason to hurry; his home was dark. He wasn’t hungry, he wasn’t thirsty, he wasn’t anything at all. The spectacle of Norton’s Gethsemane had drained him of everything but pity. Finally he went up the walk to his house. He turned on the lights and put his coat and hat away. The silence was unnatural and depressing. Everything his eye fell upon reminded him painfully of the warm and complex human stir that was missing; the television and record-player, a book Barbara had been reading, Angey’s red wool muffler on the floor of the closet, the faint hopeful chirp of Jimmy’s parakeets against the silence...

There was something to do, at any rate. He went upstairs and fed the birds, changed their water. In the study again he saw the pieces of glass he had broken the night before still lying on the rug. In the soft light they glared at him like accusing eyes. He made himself a mild drink and picked up Barbara’s book. It was My Antonia by Willa Cather. He let the book fall open, let his eyes find a passage. He read,

One dream I dreamed a great many times and it was always the same. I was in a harvest-field full of shocks and I was lying against one of them. Lena Lingard came across the stubble barefoot, in a short skirt, with a curved reaping-hook in her hand, and she was flushed like the dawn, with a kind of luminous rosiness all about her. She sat down beside me, turned to me with a soft sigh and said, “Now they are all gone, and I can kiss you as much as I like.”

The words blurred before his eyes. He had forgotten that she had read the book to him the first year they were married. He had forgotten so damned much, it seemed.

The phone rang and he lifted the receiver with the desperate hope that it would be Barbara. But it was Lieutenant Jameson.

“Mr. Farrell, we’ve picked up the boys who ran down your daughter,” Jameson said in a crisply pleased voice. “Actually, it wasn’t our doing; their father brought them in just a little while ago. There’ll be a Magistrate’s hearing tomorrow morning in the Rosedale municipal building. Around nine o’clock, I’d say. You don’t have to be there, of course. The Accident Investigation officers will handle everything. But I thought you’d want to know.”

“Yes, of course,” Farrell said. He put a cigarette between his dry lips. “Who are they?”

“They’re teen-agers, both of them, sons of a doctor who lives in Rosedale. Their names are David and Mark King. They took their mother’s car while she was entertaining some friends at lunch, and went for a joyride. When they struck your daughter they were too frightened to stop. But they owned up to what they’d done about an hour ago and their father brought them right in. Both kids are in sad shape, but I don’t expect you’ll have any sympathy to spare for them. And I don’t blame you. Doctor King wanted to come over to see you tonight, but I told him it might be better to talk to you at the hearing tomorrow morning.”

“Look, are you sure of this?” Farrell said. “How do you know they’re not lying?”

“Well, why should they? People don’t usually lie to get themselves in trouble — it’s the other way around. But aside from that we’ve checked their story and there’s no doubt they’re telling the truth.”

“I see,” Farrell said slowly, and ran a hand over his damp forehead. “There’s no chance of a mistake, then.”

“Certainly not. I thought you’d be glad to know they’re in custody.”

“Of course,” Farrell said. He closed his eyes and saw Jerry’s bruised and bloody face, the back of his brown, corded neck in that instant before Malleck’s fist had driven him to the floor. “Yes, I’m glad,” he said. “Thanks for calling, Lieutenant. What time is the hearing?”

“Around nine. I’ll see you there.”

Farrell put the phone down and looked at the backs of his hands. The knuckles were marked and cut in a half-dozen places, and the knuckle of the middle finger on his right hand was raised in an irregular lump. Jerry had got what he deserved; Farrell tried hard to make himself believe that as he lifted the receiver to call his wife.

Lights gleamed on the first floor of Wayne Norton’s home. Norton stood in the doorway of the kitchen looking down at the dinner place that had been set for him in the yellow breakfast nook; square modern silverware, a service of white plate, salt and pepper shakers in the shapes of a rooster and hen, all of it placed neatly on a black plastic mat. He had been staring at the table for several minutes, standing motionless with his hands limp at his sides. His dinner was on the electric range: a tunafish casserole, salad and rolls.