Making allowances for the weight he had lost, he gave the sizes and I wrote them down on the back of an envelope.
Just as I left, he said, “Why are you doing this, Lorene?” He was propped up on one elbow, his expression earnest, his eyes on mine.
“How should I know? You were sick. Now you’re better. I’ll buy you some clothes. Maybe you’ll take me out tonight. Big date.”
I caught the puzzled look in his eyes as I pulled the door shut.
Twenty-two fifty for a gray suit. I gave them the inseam measurement and waited while they fixed the trousers. Thirty cents for socks. Five-fifty for shoes. One eighty-five for a white shirt. Sixty-five cents for a blue figured tie. A dollar for shorts, a dollar six for razor, blades and shaving cream. Ten cents for a comb.
Dress up for death, Eric. You want to look good on that slab. Maybe I was silly. I bought him a wallet for two dollars, spent another dime for a nail file and forty-five cents for a decent handkerchief.
Loaded down with bundles, I got back to the Barton at noon. He had moved from the bed over to the one chair. He sat with the cotton blanket wrapped around him, smoking and staring out the window. He turned quickly as I unlocked the door. I dumped the pile of bundles on the bed. I managed to give him a cheery smile. “Your wardrobe, sire.”
I saw a dull red flush under the colorless beard. “It’s money tossed into a hole in the ground, Lorene.”
“I can stand it.”
“I’m shot, Lorene. Inside and out. I’ve been sitting here thinking.”
“That’s the way people get into trouble. Thinking.” He could think and I couldn’t. If I stopped to think, I would see him dead. He would be dead soon.
“Pretty yourself up, Eric. I’ll be back to see you again in about an hour.”
I went to the drugstore and phoned Sam. “This is that girl again. Delivery okay tonight?”
A few seconds silence. “Yeah. Can do. Southwest corner of River and Gardener at two in the morning. It’ll help if the package is loaded. You know what I mean.”
“Yes I do. And what about — our friend?”
“He’ll be back in town by ten tomorrow morning.”
I hung up. I had no appetite for lunch. I walked through the gray warm day and everyone in the city, everyone in the world, was a stranger to me. I wondered how executioners feel the day before they must release the trap, pull the switch, swing the gleaming axe. Do they fasten a loose smirk on their lips and say to themselves, ‘We all got to die sometime?’
I walked with blind eyes and a heart that beat slowly. When I passed the places that made the air rank with the smell of greasy food, I tasted quick nausea in my throat. The timid angel. The faltering hand of death. Hold still, sir. This hurts me more than it does you. Hold still for death. Assume the angle.
But it was for Johnny. Bold Johnny with a laugh like a shining note of silver, eyes that are mad and wonderful. The kid brother. Take care of him, Ellen James. Take care of your brother. You are your brother’s keeper.
Eric Norstram turned from the bureau mirror as I walked into the room. His face was flushed with shame and pleasure. He stood awkwardly in his new clothes, with the weakness of one who has been ill. He looked as though he had recently been discharged from a hospital. His clean-shaven cheeks and jaw were sallow-white, his hair combed neatly. The suit hung on him in folds, but fit perfectly across the shoulders.
“You look wonderful, Eric!” I said. Fit for death, my love. Dressed to meet the fates.
“I’ve been staring into this mirror for fifteen minutes,” he admitted guiltily. “I’ve been wondering if it’s me. Inside me a voice keeps telling me that if I keep the suit pressed, I can put the bite on a lot of old friends for a few bucks. I keep telling the voice to shut up.”
“Are you being virtuous?” I asked scornfully. “Brother, in ten days those clothes will look like the ones I stuffed in the barrel.”
He sat on the edge of the bed. “You’re a pretty hard kid, aren’t you, Lorene?”
“I don’t kid myself.”
“Once a bum always a bum. Is that it?”
“Something like that.”
“I’m hungry. Can you stand the fee for a steak?”
“For as many as you can eat, Eric.” Be nice to him, Ellen. The condemned man ate a hearty meal. Anyway, Eric, they won’t come in and shave your leg and the back of your head to make a good contact for the electrodes. You won’t know a thing about it.
He staggered from weakness as we turned into the small diner. For a moment he rested heavily against me, then took his hand away hurriedly and said, “I tripped.”
We sat at the counter. While I had coffee he had two orders of steak and french fries, apple pie and ice cream. He ate with steady determination, the muscles at the corner of his jaw bunching with each measured bite.
Over his coffee he said, “I was a pretty solid guy when I blacked out, Lorene. This morning I was looking at my legs. They look like I was half sparrow. I got a lot of weight to get back.”
I smiled. “Is that what you were doing? I thought you were laying a firm foundation for the next binge.”
For a moment he looked as though I had slapped him. “I can’t figure you, Lorene.”
“What is there to figure? If you want your head patted and if you want somebody to tell you that you can stop drinking, go to a clinic. I’m no reformer. I’m just setting you up for the next bout.”
He stared down into the dregs of his coffee. “You’re a funny one,” he said.
“I’m a scream,” I said.
“What do you want to do now?” he asked.
“Well, since I’ve put you back together, bit by bit, you can return the favor by being an agreeable escort for the rest of the day.”
He smiled ruefully. “I’ll need a nap in the middle of the afternoon.”
“Favor granted.”
“You know, Lorene, you don’t talk like—”
“Like a gal with a room at the Barton?”
“Something like that. I got the way I was when you — found me, because, well, life gave me a pretty rough deal. Something on the same line must have happened to you.”
I looked away. “Mr. Norstram, our delicate friendship is based on not getting involved in serious conversation. It makes my head hurt.”
I paid the check. He took my arm as we left. His hand was surprisingly strong and firm. Out on the sidewalk he yawned. “I’ve got to collapse for a time, Lorene.”
We went to the desk and I handed him the key. We moved away from the desk and he said, “You trust me, don’t you?”
“Why not? Go get your sleep.”
“What will you do?”
“How does that concern you?”
I watched him go through the arch, headed back to my room. I knew he was angry with me because the back of his neck was red. I made a mental note to give him the money for a haircut. But what did it matter? Is there any rule of procedure for hair length on a corpse?
I went to a cheap double feature. I didn’t know the names of the pictures when I walked in, and I still didn’t know them when I came out three hours and twenty minutes later.
Instead of the screen, I saw a car with Eric struggling in the back seat. Two men held him. I stood and watched the car drive away. The scene shifted. A prowl car stood, engine running, by a deserted lot. The spotlight shone on a body. A cop kneeling by the body said loudly, “A roll of bills and a sap. He was shot in the head. Call Homicide.”
I knocked on the door. The key grated in the lock and Eric opened it. His eyes were puffed with sleep. He looked cross and upset.
He reached out, caught my wrist and pulled me toward him. Through tight lips he said, “What the hell are you doing in a setup like this?”
I yanked my hand away. “Is that your business?”