Then he was gone.
Paul shut the door and bolted the locks.
33
You play the cards you’ve been dealt.
He sat motionless, bolt upright, not stirring and not reckoning the passage of time.
The telephone.
It drove him to his feet in panic and alarm. He stared at the instrument while it rang. It went on ringing; he didn’t move.
It would be Irene. He couldn’t talk to her now. He waited, wincing. It rang an incalculable number of times before she gave up.
Afterward the silence was terrifying.
34
HE PUT HIS CAR in the spiral-ramp garage. It was nearly empty; the Loop was deserted on a Sunday; he walked to the shabby building and climbed the stairs, focusing on the chipped linoleum. Let himself into the office and sat behind the desk with his fist knotted. His face turned toward the filing cabinet where the guns were.
He had to think. It was imperative. But a paralyzing numbness had set in and he kept flashing on moments of terror that jumbled in his mind like falling bricks: bloody machete looming above him, striking forward; gunsights leveling on the purse-snatcher while the old Jew moved into range; staring eyes of the blind girl.
And Harry Chisum, his voice as mild and dry as wind through autumn leaves: You’re the vigilante.
He was drawn to the cabinet. He slid the drawer open and stared down at the guns. Dull gleam of machined metaclass="underline" silent motionless things squatting in the shadows of the drawer like deadly twin embryos.
He smote the drawer with his shoe, slamming it shut with terrible force. Within, the guns skidded across the thin metal and crashed against the back of the drawer, making it ring like a crashing car.
On a desperate impulse he lunged for the telephone but the receiver was dead: they hadn’t connected it yet. He slammed it down.
Then reason pried up a corner of his desperation. He got out his handkerchief and scrubbed the telephone frantically. What else had he touched? He couldn’t remember. He scraped the handkerchief along the arms of the chair, the top of the desk, the knobs on both sides of the door. He looked around.
The filing cabinet. He wiped down the drawer and its handle. Had he touched the guns with his bare fingers?
No; he’d only stared at them. He went to his coat and got out the rubber gloves and put them on.
He sank back in the chair, drained. He had to think.
The sun began to filter through the sooty windows. He watched the line between light and shadow. Imperceptibly it fanned across the floor, approaching the desk.
His mind was running very fast like a runaway engine that had burned out its brakes. Words and images clashed kaleidoscopically without connection or transition. He felt helpless—a chip in a hurricane. It debilitated his body: he had the feeling he couldn’t rise from the chair. Sensations of drowning.
The sun moved toward him: a guillotine blade. It reached the leg of the desk and crawled up the side.
You could only prevail so long as you could convince yourself that no point of view other than that of your own prejudice existed. Your view of things took the form of a violent solipsism, and you had become the most dangerous of men—a man with an obsession….
You must have been asking yourself, “What kind of monster am I?”
Things inside you will compel you to make mistakes….
You see how it has to end.
The sun lapped over a corner of the desk top. Driven back by it, Paul struggled out of the chair.
He wrenched the door open and went out. It clicked shut behind him but he didn’t bother locking it. He went down the two flights, pausing only to wipe the knobs of the outside door; when he was in the car on Grand Avenue he stripped off the rubber gloves and crumpled them in his pocket.
In his apartment he looked at the clock. It was after three. He stood in the center of the room taking deep breaths; dropped his coat on the couch and walked to the telephone.
“Paul—I was so worried.”
“I’m sorry. Something came up. …”
“I’m sitting here throwing corks for the cat and trying not to think about cigarettes. Wherever did you rush off to? Are you all right?”
“I’ve got strange things going on in my mind.”
“What?”
“I don’t know. It’s hard to put into words. Do you ever get so knotted up you want to scream?”
She said, “Anxiety. Poor darling. It passes, you know. Everybody tends to be depressed on Sunday afternoons.”
“It’s more than that. Look, this is a bitch of a thing to say, but I’ve got to be by myself for a while, try to sort these things out.”
Her silence argued with him.
“Irene?”
“I’m here.” She was hurt.
“I just don’t want to tangle you up in my stupid neurotic problems.”
“Please, Paul, can’t—”
“I woke up this morning in a sweat,” he lied desperately. “I thought you were Esther. It was incredibly vivid. Do you understand now?”
He could hear her breathing. Finally she said, “All right, Paul. I guess there’s nothing much to say, is there.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
His hand crushed the receiver against the side of his face.
Her voice became distant: “Call me sometime, Paul.”
“Take care. …”
“Yes, you too.”
He cradled the phone very gently. And then he wept.
35
IT WENT DARK but he didn’t rise to switch on the lights: he continued to sit passively with his hands folded on the table.
All of a sudden he had a desperate need for company. He couldn’t stand the aloneness. He thought of going out—a bar. Perhaps that bar where he’d met the journalists.
He had his coat and was out the door before he stopped himself. He went back inside, hung up the coat and locked the door. Going to a bar was the last thing he could afford to do. The shape he was in, there was no telling what he’d let drop after he had alcohol inside him.
Out of the same need for companionship he switched on the television. He looked at the last ten minutes of a game show and laughed at the comedians’ jokes. He looked at half an hour of African wild animal footage narrated by a washed-up television actor. He looked at five minutes of a situation comedy rerun and suddenly he was starving.
There wasn’t much in the refrigerator. He made a meal of odds and ends. He hadn’t eaten anything since the night before; he consumed great mouthfuls with the plate balanced on his knees, sitting before the flickering television.
He watched a floor-wax commercial intently as if to memorize every line and camera cut; afterward he carried his empty dish to the kitchen and left it in the sink without stopping to rinse it. He poured three fingers of scotch into a tumbler and went back to the living room to drink it.
Station break: a car dealer offering five-hundred-dollar rebates on new compact cars; a furniture store that was fighting inflation; a supermarket chain marking down specials on turkeys and pot roasts; a shampoo that cleansed while it brightened; sixty great hits of the rock-and-roll years on four stereo albums for only seven ninety-nine. Call this number before midnight. Now here’s tonight’s news.
“At the top of the news tonight once again it’s the vigilante. Two more men were shot in Chicago streets less than three hours ago. We take you now to Roger Bond, on the scene.”
A reporter in a wind-blown trench coat faced the camera under portable floodlights. Behind him flurries blustered in a dreary street; two or three curious passers-by watched him in the background. There was nothing to be seen but the street and the reporter.