Whistling in the Dark Page 5

  Sutton didn't see anything first class about scraps, but he held up the lid while Jack plundered parts. Keeler looked them over and gave Jack ten cents for the knife. The two of them argued over the radio parts while Sutton waited in increasing concern at the hour. When he couldn't bear to wait any longer, he plucked at Jack's sleeve. "It's after eight."

  "Ah, hell. Let's go." Pockets clinking, Jack bid good-bye to Keeler and pushed Sutton ahead, out the door. "Sorry," he said as they took the bike down to the curb. "I lose track of time in Keeler's. You should've warned me."

  "Yes, my fault entirely."

  The easy grin came back. "Don't take all the blame. How about half?"

  "Half in theory, if you like, since I should have known better after all the time you took on Dan's radio. But as far as Mrs. Carlisle's concerned, the burden of fault lies entirely with you."

  "All of it?"

  Sutton noted the mock horror and nodded. "She can't fire you."

  "Buy me a cup of coffee when we get back?"

  Sutton planted himself on the handlebars and Jack pedaled like a man possessed, until they had gotten as far as the house where they'd made the delivery an hour before. There, Jack braked so abruptly, Sutton lunged off the bar and staggered for a minute to stay on his feet. "Jack? What--" Jack was already up the steps to the door. "Jack!"

  "I'll be right back," he said before vanishing inside.

  - Seven -

  Sutton stared after him. They had been making such good time and now another unscheduled stop was surely going to have him fired and back looking for work--a dreadful possibility that clearly didn't matter at all to Jack.

  Done with being a good sport, Sutton pushed the bike into the road and climbed on. It was a struggle to keep the wheels aligned, but he pedaled a few feet before he and the bike toppled over, much to the amusement of a group of boys on the stoop across the street. Ignoring them, he yanked the bike off the ground and climbed back on. The disrepair of the road made a wobbly ride even wobblier. He pedaled faster straightaway and though with each revolution of the pedals the bike veered from one side to the other, he stayed upright for several feet before toppling again.

  "My old granny rides better!" one boy yelled and the others whooped with laughter.

  Sutton brushed dirt off his trousers, wincing at his bruised palm. If he could just pick up enough speed to stay balanced, he knew he'd be all right. But when he tried, he started again to veer. Suddenly a hand was at his back and a firm grip forced the handlebars straight. He glanced wildly around to see Jack beside him, running to keep up. "You're doing it. Get your balance and keep pedaling. Come on, faster. Go, go!"

  Sutton pedaled for all he was worth and Jack let him loose. The boys on the stoop cheered him onward, but as he neared the corner, cheers turned to shouts, with Jack joining in. Sutton caught his breath in alarm at the sight of a grocer's truck lumbering through the intersection ahead. He tried to circle back, but went into a slide toward the curb. The front wheel slammed into a lamp post and he landed on the pavement, entangled with the bike.

  A breathless Jack stumbled to a stop beside him. "Jesus, I thought I'd killed you. Everything in one piece?"

  "I am, but I'm not as sure of the bicycle."

  Jack looked it over. "Damn tire's punctured. We'll have to hoof it back."

  Sutton stared in dismay at the damage. "How can I explain this to Mrs. Carlisle?" Or pay for the repair if she decided to fire him.

  "She won't ever know about it--"

  "I have to tell her."

  "Not if I patch it up."

  "Can you?" He could forgive Jack everything else in exchange for such a rescue.

  "Let's get it home. You'll have to tell Ida a story to put her off till I've finished."

  They wheeled the bike into the emporium sometime later, to find Harry in the midst of an inventory. His gaze went to Jack's grease-stained hands and he grunted. "Didn't come home with any magic beans, did you?" He patted Jack's pockets, then pulled out a part from the machine Jack had plundered.

  "For the phonograph," Jack said, taking it back.

  "Yeah. No radio parts?"

  "Not a one. Really, Harry, you ought to trust a fellow--"

  "Whose bike?"

  "Ida's."

  Harry backed away, hands upraised. "I didn't hear that. I know nothing about it. And I won't ask for details, even if you pay me. I'm going back to work, Jack. It's been swell knowing you."

  "Would you quit it? I just got Sutton all bucked up and here you go scaring him again." Jack started for the back, hauling the bike. "I'll have it good as new in a few minutes and no trouble from Ida, I promise."

  Harry looked soberly at Sutton. "Sorry, kid. I should've warned you about him. Didn't cross my mind at the time."

  "Is he always so--energetic?"

  Harry's sudden cough sounded more like laughter he couldn't hold back. "Jack'll keep you on the jump, if you let him. Say, Esther was over here about twenty minutes ago looking for you. I had the idea you might've gotten a little lost. She figured the same. I guess you can take it from there."

  Lost. That was apt. "Thank you. If you'll pardon me, I must keep tabs on that bicycle if I want to keep my job."

  The back of the store seemed deserted. Sutton peeked into the office to find it empty. The piano stood silent, expectant, as he walked past. He wondered where Ox had gotten to and if the lessons were going any better. Below one of the hanging carpets, a short hallway ended at the back door. A few battered pieces of discarded furniture crowded the porch and beyond that, weeds and wildflowers obscured the path to the gate. A young maple in autumn red provided shade for most of the yard, the remainder awash in sunlight. Basking in that light before Sutton's disbelieving gaze lay the motionless shape of a fat brown crocodile. It rested in a puddle of water under the arch of a cracked clay pot lying partially buried in the mud.

  When the crocodile didn't move, Sutton let out a breath of relief. It was one of the emporium's stuffed creatures. He took a curious step closer and the crocodile's narrow snout slithered a quarter turn in the thick grass to point inquisitively in his direction. Sutton stumbled backward, to collide with Jack in the doorway, and grabbed him to keep him from going any further. "There's a crocodile--a very much alive crocodile--in your yard--"

  "Oh, that's Woodrow." Jack pulled him inside and shut the door. "Woody's all right. Wouldn't hurt a fly. Come on, this way." He pushed aside a carpet and opened the door behind it, leading Sutton into what appeared to be a combination of workroom and storage, the windows barely bringing in enough light to dispel the musty atmosphere. Jack had already set the bike on a workbench. "Make yourself at home. This won't take long."

  "But--the--in your yard--"

  "Woody hasn't bitten anyone since he got here. Not even Ned."

  "You keep it as a pet?" Sutton sputtered.

  "Well..." Jack appeared to consider the question as he prodded the tire. "We get deliveries from all over the place. Sometimes not exactly what we ordered." He couldn't seem to contain a smile. "Harry won't even come in the yard while we're uncrating, anymore."

  A decision with which Sutton sympathized wholeheartedly. He wondered if there was anything Jack didn't take in stride. "What other creatures do you have lurking?" He peered under the bench.

  "Nothing with a bite any worse than Ida's."

  "That doesn't reassure me. All those pieces for the radio Keeler sold you, you gave them to Dan?"

  Jack stayed quiet a long minute, his face shadowed with a seriousness Sutton hadn't seen before. "Keep it to yourself, all right? Harry's been worrying about money." A corner of his mouth lifted, a hint of embarrassment in the twist of it. "Keeler had the parts Danny needed. I couldn't pass that up, could I?"

  A properly shady character would have. "About before, when I nearly deserted you--I'm sorry. You see, this is my first job and a miracle I found it because I'd been planning to go home--"

  "And going home with your tail between your legs was about t
he last thing you wanted to do then or now." Jack gave the wheel a spin. "Forget about it. I've walked to Keeler's and back plenty of times and in all weathers." He suddenly grinned. "You ain't got it so tough, Dorothy. Wait till you've lived through a New York winter. Why do you think Ida's so mean? She's lived through seventy-five of them."

  To Sutton's amazement, the irrepressible man who'd spent the morning tormenting him became the soul of patience and attention, as the hands that did half his talking patched the tire with sure fingers. When he finished, Jack set the bike on the floor and Sutton looked it over, to find it in fine shape. "Remarkable."

  Jack, to his surprise, looked sheepish. "It's all right. Ready to sweet-talk old Ida?"

  Sutton wasn't by a long shot, but Ida had to be faced. They went into the quiet restaurant, the hour past nine, and Esther stopped scrubbing the counter to look at him with alarm. "Where've you been?" As Jack followed with the bike, she rolled her eyes. "Jack, get out of here. Ida will--"

  Stomping echoed on the cellar steps. The door was kicked wide. Ida, her thin arms stretched taut around a sack of potatoes, fixed a sharp eye on Sutton and he didn't think his own father had ever regarded him more fiercely. "You're late."

  Sutton fished the dollar from his pocket. "I'm so sorry, Mrs. Carlisle. I did make the delivery--"

  Jack startled him with an exasperated laugh. "Sutton, for God's sake, tell her. Hell, you were a regular hero." Jack hardly paused for breath. "You should have seen him, Ida. We'd just delivered Mrs. Barrow's breakfast when those kids from the pool hall grabbed some old lady's pocketbook, practically right in front of us. Sutton took off after the kids--and damn if he didn't send 'em packing. I'll bet he picked that up in France." An elbow nudged Sutton, "Right?"

  Jack's smile was so frank and full of confidence, Sutton half-believed the story, himself. "Hell of a thing to be modest about, pal. Really--" He turned the engaging smile on a stony-faced Ida. "I just wish you'd seen it. Battered the bike a little, chasing them down, but I fixed it good as new. No charge, of course--but if you feel obliged, you could forgive my tab and call us square."

  Esther made little choking sounds behind the hand over her mouth and had to flee to the kitchen, a maneuver Sutton envied. He'd never in his life heard such a lie proclaimed so earnestly. He held his breath, waiting for what was sure to be a scorching dressing-down before Ida ordered him to get his things and go.

  Ida looked at Jack, then back at Sutton. "Is that the truth?"

  "It's difficult to believe, I realize--" He choked on the words and Jack jumped to his rescue again.

  "I know I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it myself. Goddamned smart of you to hire him, Ida. Pardon my French."

  Ida gave in with a long-suffering snort. "Take these potatoes. Folks will be in for lunch, so don't dawdle."

  She wasn't going to fire him. Dazed, Sutton took the bag. Jack winked at him on the way out. "If there's ever anything else I can do for you, just let me know."

  - Eight -

  Jack finished his coffee and yawned again. Two cups and he still couldn't keep his eyes open. A nap might be called for. He'd gotten used to catnapping while overseas. The noise and bustle, the endless discomfort, and the constant presence of his fellow soldiers had contributed to a pattern of sleep doled out in minutes instead of hours. The falling of night, once an easy drift into dreamland, these days left him with a restless feeling, a need for vigilance that would not go away.

  He had eaten his breakfast, but left the newspaper unread. There was more entertainment to be found in watching Albright scurry from counter to table, ignoring him every time. Come to think of it, Albright had been ignoring him for a few days, ever since the trip to Keeler's.

  "Hi ya, Mabel," Jack said as Sutton walked past.

  Sutton barely glanced at him.

  Jack grabbed a corner of his apron. "Come on, slow up, will you? You're going to make me think you don't like me."

  "I have work to do, so if you will--let--go--" He tried to pull away, but Jack hung on.

  "Ida giving you trouble?"

  "No, you are. Will you let me go, please?"

  "Ida's not mad and you didn't get the boot. What are you sore about?"

  "I'm not sore. I'm just trying to keep my job."

  "Esther associates with me and she's still working here."

  Sutton groaned. "If I say I like you, will you let me go back to work?"

  "Only if you mean it." Jack grinned.

  The corners of Sutton's mouth grudgingly lifted. "Have you finished?" He nodded toward the plate, where a scrap of egg remained.

  Jack tossed him the quarter. "No change this time."

  "And the ten cents you owe me?"

  "Mind if I pay Chase first?"

  "Who is this Chase?"

  "Remind me to tell you later." Jack hopped up and went out before Sutton could press any more questions on him. He was at the curb when the sight of customers heading into the emporium stopped him in his tracks. Both he and Harry had begun to wonder if the till would see another penny before the rent was due. Now three customers at once seemed like a gift from above. A belated urgency hit him and he dashed across the alley and into the shop at their heels, there launching into a welcome that had Harry peering dubiously around the aisle.

  He didn't get far before one of the women gestured toward the back, from whence came Ox's less than sprightly rendition of Moonlight Bay. "Mr. Bailey--what is that?"

  "Oh. Our pianist. Tops, ain't--" He paused, certain for an instant he'd felt the gentle swat that had been his mother's way of correcting him. "Isn't he?"

  Ox stopped abruptly, then started over. The women exchanged nervous smiles, vaguely promised to return, and made their escape. His own elation fading, Jack didn't have to look around to picture the expression on Harry's face. "Okay, I'll tell him."

  "You do that," Harry said, "before the cops arrest us for disturbing the peace."

  Jack pounced on Ox and pulled him into the office to rearrange the practice schedule. The day improved after that and Jack wondered aloud to Harry if maybe the intermittent announcements over the radio were having some effect. That hope kept him peddling energetically through the day, though by late afternoon he was nearly asleep on his feet. When he couldn't hold out any longer, he asked Harry to wake him in thirty minutes and dropped onto the office sofa.

  With the sound of activity distant and lulling, he melted into the cushions to his bones. If he dreamt of crawling through the mud while shells rocked the heavens, Harry's hand on his shoulder would startle him awake to discover nearly an hour had passed and they were ready to close for supper. Hell, maybe the slow whirr of the fan and the steady tap of the clock were the dream and he would wake in a dim dugout, his head pillowed on burlap, the crusted layer of mud on his clothes serving as a blanket. He would rise, every muscle aching, and climb out, to see barren fields, frosted even in the daylight. He would feel the chill wind running unceasingly through him and the slick duckboard underfoot. He would hear the distant whistle in the air and know the shell was flying, that it was coming for him, and he had nowhere to go and nowhere to hide before it burst--

  But no searing metal rained. No smoke tinged with the terrifying whiff of gas choked him. The world went silent and for one fragile moment he thought he'd escaped the nightmare.

  He hadn't. Around him lay his fellows, his comrades at arms. His friends. No longer knowing anything--or perhaps knowing everything. He searched their gray faces, upturned toward a cold sun, and their eyes stared through him as if he were the ghost. Death found them before they had an instant to realize it. And that was the only way. Better than lying conscious under a smoke-blackened sky while his heart slowed with every breath and his mind grasped at what last thoughts it could--God, he couldn't bear that. He would turn from that unending expanse, curl up on his side and fumble for the hand of the soldier nearest, and while there was a little warmth left between them, believe he wasn't going alone. Maybe his thoughts woul
d keep coming afterward, churning and twisting in the wind. Maybe that was how he would find his way, riding on the wind, to a place where no wars could follow. Heaven--if that shelter was granted him.

  "Jack?" Never was a voice so unsuited for gentleness so gentle. "Jack, come out of there. You know where you are. Come on, son. Look at me."

  The dream--which was the dream? His insides churned with sickening confusion. The war was over. Home wasn't a wistful creation. It was reality, if a changed one. Which was the goddamned dream? He was afraid to open his eyes. The arm around his shoulders prevented escape. The bayonet was next. Or a bullet to the head. Either way, death--with all the time in the world to realize it.

  "Calm down, Jack. Ox, give me that blanket. And get them all out. Close up, for Christ's sake."

  Cold, he was so cold. Colder than the muddiest foxhole on the darkest, longest night of the year. But the gruff voice rambled on and its warmth seeped into him. It surely meant he was someplace safe. "Harry?"

  "Thank God. Yeah, I'm here." A hand brushed roughly over his hair. "I'm right here."

  He ran in his mind, ran madly back to wakefulness. His chest tightened and he gasped for breath. "Harry?"

  "It's okay," Harry said. "You're all right."

  Squeezing shut his burning eyes, he pressed his face into Harry's sleeve. He was home. A hand moved in soothing circles on his back until he could breathe easier. He drifted and the next thing he knew, he lay on the sofa, under the quilt that he used to cover the radio at night. The hand around his wrist was warm and real.

  "Some better?" Harry asked and his voice was less than steady.

  Not trusting his own voice, Jack nodded. When Ox peered around the door, Jack waved him in and apologized to both of them at once. Harry let out a breath he must've been holding too long and settled back in his chair. "Maybe you've got some things to be sorry for, but that ain't one of them."

  "Harry's right. I know." Ox's stint had lasted two months, until a busted leg put him in the hospital and his mother's death got him all the way home to the bedridden father who needed him. His father had mended and the only sign of Ox's injury was a limp on rainy days. But even two months was enough to bring home the lion's share of nightmares.