Altar pulled back his shoulders and thrust out his unshaven jaw. Give it to her, Larry thought. Tell her!
“I cried all the way to the bank!” Altar shouted.
Larry blinked at him, disappointed. And then he realized that Altar had picked up the only weapon available to him. Success was lying at his feet, and he had picked up Success and wielded it like a club. And having used it, he seemed embarrassed by the ineffectiveness of his ultimate weapon. He would not meet Larry’s eyes. He turned his back to Marcia and, with a great show of bravado, stamped barefooted to the refrigerator. He pulled out a package of sliced American cheese, tore off the cellophane wrapping, folded six slices of cheese in half, and stuffed them into his mouth.
“Critics,” he said. “I eat them like the pieces of cheese they are!”
The room was silent. Altar chewed his food. The girl went to the bar and poured herself another bourbon.
“I brought you some rough sketches,” Larry said.
“Oh, yeah.”
“We had an appointment for three, remember?”
“I’m sorry. I forgot.” Altar opened a bottle of milk, tilted it to his mouth, and began drinking. He wiped away the milk mustache with the back of his hand and then said, “I can’t talk sketches today. I’m too busy.”
“Okay,” Larry said. “Look them over and we’ll discuss them when I get back.”
“Back from where?” Altar asked, interested.
“My wife and I are going to Puerto Rico.”
“What the hell for? That’s the asshole of the Antilles.”
“Business,” Larry said. “I’m on my way now to pick up the plane tickets.”
“Okay, don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Altar turned to the girl. “Listen, Critic,” he said, “instead of guzzling my booze, why don’t you clean up the place a little? It looks like a pigsty.” He turned back to Larry. “She’s trying to make me live like her goddamn stereotype of a writer. She knows too many Greenwich Village phonies.”
“I’ll get around to cleaning it,” she said.
“Oh, forget it,” Altar said. “Pack a bag and go live with a reviewer, why don’t you?”
“I like it here.”
“You’re the most unimaginative, insulting bitch I’ve ever met in my life,” Altar said.
“I inspired your creative spurt,” Marcia said.
“Sure. There isn’t a woman alive who doesn’t believe her body is a deep soulful well from which a terribly stupid man grabs a handful of divine inspiration. Well, baby, I hate to disillusion you, but—”
“Don’t,” Marcia said.
“I’m going,” Larry interrupted. “I’ll call you when I get back.”
“Okay,” Altar said. He led Larry to the front door, and then added, “Give my regards.”
“To whom?” Larry asked.
And Altar, remembering the joke, suddenly kicked Larry in the seat of his pants and shouted. “Why, the governor!”
7
It was the day before Halloween, and there were pumpkins to buy.
Don would have to cut grinning faces into them — how Patrick loved to see the faces appear in the orange globes. And Indian corn, of course, to hang outside the house next to the mailbox. How quickly it was Halloween, how quickly summer had died.
She shuddered.
She did not like the word Halloween. The word to her meant terror, the boy chasing behind her, hitting her with the chalked stick, shouting, “Halloween! Halloween!” and then circling around in front of her, still shouting, the chalked stick pointed and sharp. She could remember it clearly, she had been twelve, two years after her grandfather’s death, could remember running, and then stumbling, and suddenly the sharp penetrating end of the stick hitting her cheek, and the blood, and the boy’s eyes going wide with sudden fright.
They had taken two stitches to close the curiously shaped miniature X on her right cheek. The cross I bear, she mused, but she did not smile. And even the more timid boys on other Halloweens had chased her with stockings full of flour, marking up her clothes. Halloween meant terror to her, huge bonfires in the Manhattan streets, the kids rushing to the leaping flames with their booty; old chairs, crates, bundles of newspapers, signs ripped from grocery stores; dancing around the fire like hobgoblins, their watch caps pulled over their eyes and their ears, or some of the boys wearing their leather pilot’s helmets, the goggles pulled down against the billowing smoke, glowing weirdly in the light of the fire. Terror. She did not like the word Halloween.
Pumpkins, she told herself, and Indian corn. And candy for the kids who come to the front door. And she’d better get some of those little trick-or-treat bags to put the candy in. God, there wasn’t a holiday now that didn’t cost a fortune.
She walked with her head bent, watching the pavement.
There was a wind, and her head was ducked partially in defense against it. But even if it were summertime, she’d have walked with her eyes cast downward. She had grown used to automobiles slowing and offering her rides, had grown used to the whistles from truck drivers, and so she walked now with her own thoughts, erecting the shell of a false indifference around her. She kept one hand in her coat pocket. The other held the flap of her collar against her scarred right cheek. She wore long dangling earrings, and a kerchief of bright blue, and her heels made hurried chatter with the pavement.
When she heard the automobile horn, she did not look up. The car pulled to the curb just as she was about to cross the street. It stopped, and then she heard the horn again. Slowly she raised her eyes.
She recognized the Dodge almost instantly, and she was surprised by the smile which appeared on her mouth. She realized abruptly that she didn’t even know this man’s name, except as “Chris’s father.” He was smiling, and his eyes in the sunlit interior of the car were almost black, and she found herself looking at his face for the first time and thinking it was not a handsome face, except for the eyes. The eyes were a deep, warm brown.
“Hi, Maggie,” he said, and the name stabbed deep within her because no one but her grandfather had ever called her Maggie.
“My name is Margaret,” she said, aware that her voice had trembled a little, unable to hide her resentment, and remembering that he had told her she wasn’t so pretty, allowing the memory to add to her resentment.
“Mine’s Larry,” he said. “Larry Cole. Pleased to meet you. Want to see something terrific?”
She wanted to say, “No, I don’t!” firmly and emphatically. But there was an eager boyishness on his face, shining in his eyes, and she got the feeling that this was very important to him, and she could not for the life of her burst his bubble.
“What is it?” she asked.
“For Allhallows’ Eve,” he told her. He held up a forefinger. “One moment, please,” he said, and then he ducked below the window of the car.
She waited, thinking, Allhallows’ Eve, and suddenly his face appeared at the window, but it wasn’t his face. He was wearing a grotesque rubber mask, an exaggerated Neanderthal man thing that caused her to reel back in shock for a moment. The mask had a massive nose, and thick livery lips, and matted black hair clinging to the forehead. He began laughing behind the mask, and she laughed too, and then he pulled the mask from his face, and his eyes sought hers for approval.
“Isn’t it great?”
“Where’d you get it?”
“Up at the center. I couldn’t resist it.” He was out of breath now. He glanced at the mask and said, “Go on, say it.”
“Say what?”
“Put on the mask again.”
She laughed. “No, don’t. It’s better this way.”
“You walking to the center?” he asked.
“Yes.”