Alone at Night

Vin Packer

• Éditeur: Prologue Books
• Année: 2011
• ISBN:
  9781440537028
• Sujet: Literature
• Sous-sujet: Crime & Mystery Literature

On their first night Carrie had been nervous, and Slater had tried to think of some way to make it easier for her, to show her how fine and free it could be. But the moment they'd stepped into the cabin, she had undressed, matter-of-factly, a cigarette dangling from her lips. Her body was white and incredibly lovely, and Slater had felt desire engulf him. He had held her, hungrily, and hardly listed to the one thing she'd said. ''I don't think I'll be much good at this.'' She had been so cruelly right. And that, in a way, was what had killed her. That, and a beautiful woman named Jenny.

eight

“I think he probably has Blue Eye, Miss — Miss — ” Chris McKenzie fumbled for her name.

“Miss Sontag, Dr. McKenzie. Mona Sontag. I work in the office at Burr. Secretarial.” She pushed her empty glass forward on the mahogany bar, and Jitz Walsh put it under a beer jet to fill it.

“Well, I’m sure it’s Blue Eye. Is the cornea a bluish white?”

“Sort of. Yes, and the white of his eye is all red. Poor little dog. We named him Burr. My mother did.” She giggled, and turned to Slater. “No offense. I just been working there so long and all.”

“No offense,” Slater agreed.

It was late Christmas afternoon, near four. Most of the lake places closed in the winter, but Walsh’s Place bragged: OPEN YEAR ROUND, EVERY DAY.

Jen and Lena were filling the jukebox with quarters, and while Miss Sontag solicited medical advice from Slater’s brother-in-law, Slater sipped scotch, and tried not to get into conversation with the fellow a few stools to his left. His name was Secora, and he too worked for Slater, had worked for him as far back as World War II, when the plant was making precision forgings for airplanes and warships, and Nelson Stewart was still alive.

That day after Slater and Jen had their first rendezvous at Blood Neck Point (where they had seen Secora drive off with Rich Boyson’s wife as they drove in to park) Secora had called to report his ribs were broken in an accident. Eventually, Slater learned Rich Boyson was the accident, but at the time he had shrugged it off without connecting the two incidents. He had ordered Miss Rae to keep Secora on the payroll during his long recovery, a gesture he would have shown any long-term employee. Secora returned months later with a chummy display of gratitude, which took the form of slapping Slater’s back during Slater’s rounds of the plant, and a few times, an invitation for a beer at the bar across from the plant, refused by Slater. Time passed and Secora’s attitude changed; he was thick with the union leaders in the plant, less friendly, and Slater felt, slightly bitter at the bad times B.M.C. was realizing. That afternoon, Secora was bent on fond reminiscences of Nelson Stewart and “the old days,” and Slater sensed he was working himself up to a fight, despite his euphoric air.

Secora was saying, “Those were the days! Say, Mr. Burr, did we win four Army-Navy “E” awards or five?”

“Five,” said Slater.

“I was just starting in at B.M.C. then. ‘Course, then it was Stewart Company.”

“Umm hmm.”

“We could sure use another war,” said Secora, “or another industry in this town.”

Slater got off the barstool, as Chris McKenzie was advising Miss Sontag to bathe her dog’s eye with warm two per cent boric-acid solution, several times a day. It had been Jen’s idea to come to Walsh’s Place and bring her brother and Lena, to make up for Slater’s absence at their home last night. Jen liked to “slum,” liked crummy little bars like this one and Boyson’s. Slater realized she enjoyed the attention she received from the people in those bars, enjoyed having them watch her … and perhaps envy her. That was part of Jen, part of her youngness and her restlessness.

He went back near the jukebox and caught a hold of her, waltzing her around the small space with an exaggerated aplomb. McKenzie’s wife drifted back to the bar.

“Hey, Slater, it’s a Twist, not a Waltz.” Jen laughed.

“Only one knows the difference is Chris. He’s the only one drinking ginger ale.”

“Be nice to him, though, hmm? It’s Christmas.”

“Oh, I’ll be darling to him.”

“Having a good time?”

“Divine, Jenny, a divine time!”

Jen grinned up at him. “I know. But we have to make some effort with them, once a year anyway … and it’s more fun out here, than in their place. Lena doesn’t think so. ‘Jen,’ she said to me, ‘you and Slater pick the lowest places. I mean, the people here.’ “

“Too close to home.”

“Don’t I know it! Do you know she used to date Jitz Walsh?”

For awhile, they danced without talking. Slater’s mind was back on Leydecker. The latest was that Leydecker had called an emergency meeting of the zoning board for next Tuesday. He was determined to push through his proposal. G.E. was ready to scout Cayuta some time in the spring, and it was Leydecker’s thought that by then, a demolition crew might already have in progress the removal of the Burr plant. A park could take its place — a beautiful park, for public use, landscaped and lovely, in center town. The mayor had called Slater that morning to tell him about the meeting. The Cayuta Macaroni plant was owned by the mayor’s brother, who wanted a new industry kept out just as badly as Slater did. It was an indisputable fact that Slater’s plant was not only an eyesore, but also a source of labor disputes and unrest — another bad mark for the city. No company wanted to move in on trouble, but if the zoning proposal were passed, the trouble would be removed.

The mayor had said, “We’ve got to appeal on the basis that B.M.C. is a local business, and no city progresses by putting its own people out and letting in outsiders … Now, that’s the approach, but it’ll take a lot of fast talk, and you’ve got to work on a loan and promise great improvements via it. I can’t fight, Slater. I’m in no position to, and it’d look bad if my brother fought, so it’s up to you! You’ve got to stop Leydecker!”

“A penny?” Jen said.

“Oh, I was just thinking about …” Slater began, but stopped short. The door had opened and closed, and Donald Cloward stood by the cigarette machine, at the entrance to Walsh’s.

“What’s the matter, Slater?” Jen said. “See a ghost?” … Then she saw him too.

For a moment, he watched Slater and Jen; then, when they saw him, he gave a slight nod, and went across to sit by Secora.

“The Cloward boy!” Jen said. “My God in heaven! What’s he doing out?”

“I don’t know.”

They kept on dancing, watching while Cloward ordered a beer, and Lena McKenzie moved away from him. Chris nodded at him, and Secora punched him in the arm with a big grin and asked him when he got sprung. Cloward’s face went red with embarrassment. Again, he glanced over his shoulder at Jen and Slater.

“Let’s say hello to him, Slater.”

“What for?”

“What do you send him Christmas cards for? To be nice.”

“Oh, hell — nice!”

“He keeps looking at us, Slater. Let’s!”

She took the lead, and Slater followed.

Cloward stood up and made a jerky little bow. “Hello. You’re — ” and for a moment the words stuck in his throat. “You’re — Mrs. Burr.”

“Yes. How are you?”

“Oh, I’m all right, thanks.” Then — and there seemed to be some special significance attached to the greeting and the look in Cloward’s eyes, he said to Slater, “Hello there, Mr. Burr. I’m glad to see you again.”

“Buzzy.”

Secora was watching the whole moment with open curiosity, turning on the stool, and staring at the trio. Chris McKenzie was noticing out of the corner of his eye, still talking about antibiotic treatment for Blue Eye in a dog. Lena was lurking behind her husband, and Jitz Walsh had turned on the water in the bar sink full force, and was rattling glasses busily and nervously. The only one disinterested seemed to be Miss Sontag, who was trying to get Chris to help her remember the word “terramycin.”

Jen said, “Are you home for good now?”

“No, ma’am. Just for a few days. I’m going to work in New York City, I think.” He looked back at Slater, standing behind Jen.

“Oh, I envy you!” said Jen. “I adore New York!”

Cloward picked up his beer glass, and before he swallowed, tipped it slightly in Jen’s direction. “Well, Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas to you … is it Fuzzy?”

“Buzzy … I’m called Donald nowadays.”

“Donald. Merry Christmas, Donald.”

Slater excused himself and went back into the Men’s. He leaned against the sink, pausing to collect his thoughts. He was just a little tight, but he knew he should have been more effusive, should have pumped the boy’s arm in the old gesture of bygones-be-bygones … was that right?

The shock at seeing Cloward so suddenly had thrown him off. He should have feigned the attitude of forgive ness, just as he always went out of his way to ask old man Cloward how Donald was, and to send the Christmas cards each year. He remembered the stumbling, remorseful letter Cloward had sent from Brinkenhoff the first year, and the agonized expression on Cloward’s face when Slater confronted him on the night of August 30th. The events of the night began to whirl through Slater’s brain, beginning with Carrie saying:

II.

“Actually, I was thinking of a way to increase the velocity of the power hammer, on the Rolli machine.”

They were standing near the parking lot at The Kantogee Country Club, off to the right, on the bank, where there was a sudden drop to the highway.

He had seen her leave the clubhouse, while he was at the bar talking with Jen. Jen was telling him that it was hopeless; s...