So we tried to run to catch her, but my grandfather swept us back with his huge arms, laughing, bellowing at us that it was funny. I hated him then. I hated the three of them — my grandfather, Tiger, and Christine.
Because, you see, Christine was laughing, too. She stood up, hunched over, laughing. Grandfather and Tiger beat each other on the back and roared with delight at the deranged scrabbling terrorized creature, telling each other how funny it was. Christine moved slowly toward the steps, shrieking laughter, and as she hobbled up the steps it changed to a keening, wailing sound, the tears running down her face.
My grandfather’s roaring laughter stopped abruptly as the screen door banged behind her, and he turned quickly away from the still hilarious Tiger.
Following grandfather’s orders, we caught Gretchen, wrapped her firmly in burlap, and took her to the porch. Grandfather gently pried the bruised bill open and, holding Gretchen’s head against his thigh, skillfully worked the sticky mass out of the concavity. Tiger stood watching, chuckling reminiscently, while we hiccuped in the aftermath of tears. When she was as clean as he could get her, my grandfather put her down and took the sacking off her. She scrambled to her feet and went headlong for the safety of her beloved pond, half running, half flying.
Tiger said it was time to go and sent Sheila in to get Christine. Sheila came out in a few moments and said Christine had a headache and couldn’t go. Tiger hung around for a little while, acting sort of ugly. And then he went off, and the snarling drone of his car faded quickly. We went down to the pond. Gretchen was soiled and she had some broken feathers, but she looked unapproachably white there in the blue dusk, floating out in the middle, making no sound for us.
There were no more boat rides, no more preening the golden hair of the big sister, no more chuckling sound behind us when we walked across the yard, no more visits in the dusk. We told each other that if grandfather had let us help her before she became too terrified, it might have been all right, and we might have kept her trust.
We never quite forgave our grandfather for that. Maybe he wasn’t interested in our kind of forgiveness. He was a wild and random old man, and sometimes he made no sense at all. But when I saw Tiger the other day, I suddenly realized that if we’d helped Gretchen quickly, then it might have been just one of Tiger’s little jokes, and Christine would have gone off with him that night and other nights, and the world might be quite different for her now. By delaying us, grandfather showed her Tiger’s kind of laughter, of which there is often too much in the world.
But he never explained.
The Trouble with Erica
September 1953, Cosmopolitan
Erica, leaning forward from the back seat, told Mack where to turn. He was aware of the fragrance of her and thought he could feel the touch of her breath against the side of his throat. “Now just two more blocks, Mack, and it will be on the right with the porch lights on.” She hesitated over calling him Mack. When the evening had started, it had been Mr. Landers and Miss Holmes, Marie, beside Mack, leaned forward and punched the lighter in. Mack felt a mild amusement. Marie had gone a little sour on the evening.
It was a narrow street, down at the heels. The house was small, and Mack guessed it probably looked less defeated at night with the lights on than during the day.
He stopped, and Marie hitched toward him and pulled the back of her seat forward so that Quent and Erica could get out. Erica turned gravely once she was out of the car and said in her husky voice, “It was nice, people. Nice to meet you, Marie, and you, Mack. I hope I’ll see you soon again.”
“No doubt of that,” Quent said with that effervescence that had been his all evening. “Be right back,” he said.
They sat with the motor running. Quent walked Erica up to her door. Mack heard Marie sniff. He tapped a cigarette on the horn ring and lit it. “Pretty girl,” he said casually.
“Oh, sure,” Marie said.
“Don’t you like her, baby?”
“She’s just fine, Mack. Just absolutely fine. I haven’t had such a gay little evening since I was a Girl Reserve.” She imitated Erica’s voice, saying, “Just a little dry sherry, please. The music is quite loud here, isn’t it?”
Mack glanced at the porch. Erica and Quent were standing under the porch light. He saw them shake hands and nearly choked. “Like going back to when I was seventeen,” he said wonderingly. “No. Sixteen. By seventeen I wouldn’t let them get away with that.”
“You were a dog, of course,” Marie said.
Quent came striding back out to the car, got in beside Marie, and pulled the door shut. Mack started up fast, the powerful motor roaring in the quiet of the darkened street.
“How do you like her?” Quent asked eagerly.
“She seems like a very nice girl,” Marie said evenly.
“Nice kid,” Mack agreed.
“She’s really got me going,” Quent said. “I’m glad we all got along so good together. I was kind of afraid.”
“Afraid we’d be too coarse and worldly for the little dear?” Marie asked, an unpleasant note in her voice.
“Now don’t be like that, Marie,” Quent said. “You know I didn’t mean anything like that.”
“Then exactly what in hell are you talking about?” Marie demanded.
“Shut your pretty face, darling,” Mack said.
“I was afraid he was going to tell me she’s a nice girl,” Marie said.
“Look, it was a good evening,” Quent said. “Let’s break it off good.”
“Okay,” Marie said. “Nightcap at my place?”
“Not tonight,” Mack said. “Tomorrow is a working day. Landers and Dale have got stuff piled up. Right, kid?”
“Right, Mack,” Quent said.
Mack drove back toward town, parked in front of the blonde stone and glass apartment house where Marie lived on ample alimony. He got out, and Marie slid out on his side, and he said, “Back in a second, kid.”
He walked into the sterile tile lobby with Marie. He grinned at her. She was a sturdy blonde with shrewd eyes, good clothes, and a sulky mouth. They were easy with each other, and he knew she had learned that if she got rough, it was always a few weeks before he called her up again.
“Now we shake hands, maybe?” Marie asked. “An evening with sweet young stuff and you can’t even come up for a drink.”
“You want him up for a drink? You want to listen to him talk about love’s young dream for an hour perhaps?”
“Please. Not that.”
“Okay, so I drop him and come back for my drink. That makes better sense?”
Her slow smile came. She ran her fingertips down his cheek. “Mmm,” she said. “Good sense.”
“Within an hour, honey,” he said, and turned and walked out. His heels made loud firm noises on the tile, and as he pushed the front door open he heard the soft closing of the door of the self-service elevator. He walked out toward the car where he could see the glow of Quent’s cigarette. He got in and slammed the door and headed through town.
“I’m conversational,” Quent said. “Nightcap?”
“A short one.” The streets were empty, and he parked in front of The Alibi. They went in and sat at the curve of the bar. Mack tilted his hat back off his broad forehead. There was a party in one of the big booths — two girls and three men, all loud and out of focus.