“Boy,” Art said, “their families sure p-p-pulled a lot of strings to get them off.”
“Are there many clubs like that?” Jim said. “Among the upper-class kids?”
Rachael said, “Most of the kids from good homes belong to one club or another. They have pins and dances and initiations. And the trouble is, the reason the clubs are so strong, is that their fathers used to belong to them. And the dances are held in those big houses up on Nob Hill. The parents sort of sponsor them. They have a lot of money. Like the Bactrian pin costs around fifty dollars.”
Ahead of them were the bear cages. They found a place to buy hot coffee and a place to sit. Rachael seemed tired from the walking; her shoulders drooped. Across from their bench, children gathered to view the bears. One bear lay back on its rump, clutching its hind feet with its forepaws and rocking grotesquely from side to side. The sight seemed to make Rachael uncomfortable.
“What’s the m-m-matter?” Art asked, bending over her.
“Nothing. It just bothers me.”
Art said, “Mm-maybe we ought to get back. So she can start fixing d-d-dinner.” As they drove back toward the apartment on Fillmore, Rachael said, “Who is Pat?”
“My ex-wife,” he said. “She works down at KOIF.”
“Is that that woman with the b-b-black hair?” Art said. “I think I saw her, she’s real cute. Real cool-looking.”
“It must be funny,” Rachael said, “not being married to somebody and still seeing them.”
“It can be tough,” he said. “Does she like to work?”
“She likes her job.”
Rachael said, “I think if a man loves a woman he should never leave her or go around with anybody else.”
“Sometimes,” Jim said, “the woman doesn’t want to have any more to do with him.” Rachael nodded.
“Had you thought of that?” he asked her. “No,” she said.
“I was very much in love with Pat,” he said. “In some respects I still am. But she wanted something that I couldn’t give her.”
“How do you feel when you see her?” Rachael asked. “Do you still want to help her and do things for her and take care of her?”
“Yes,” he said. “But I’m realistic enough to accept the fact that I can’t. One of these days she’s going to get married to the station business manager, a fellow named Bob Posin.”
He made a left turn onto Fillmore. Presently they were parked down the block from the house, and he was opening the car door for Rachael and Art. “Don’t be too disappointed,” Rachael said, “if I don’t cook as well as Pat.” He was amused. “Okay, little Mrs. Wife.”
The apartment was below street level, and the living room was cool and damp. Pipes ran along the walls. How few pieces of furniture, he thought. A heavy round oak table was the largest piece, and then two chairs, and the couch, and a dresser on which was a television set, an obsolete twelve-inch Emerson with a rabbit-ears antenna. Standing up in the corner were printer’s dummies, titled Phantasmagoria in huge Gothic type. Rachael went at once to the kitchen and began preparing the meal. Throwing himself down on the couch, Art lit a cigarette and began to smoke nervously. The man of the house, Jim thought, was feeling the gravity of his position.
“Not bad,” Jim said, meaning the apartment.
“We been living h-h-here since we got married.” Art puffed more and more rapidly; clouds of cigarette smoke obscured him. With a sigh, he drew in his feet and shifted about on the sofa.
Rachael appeared at the kitchen doorway, looking for dishes. She, too, was anxious, and he thought to himself that this was an occasion for both of them. Probably she had little opportunity to cook for company, to play out her role as hostess.
“Would you like some coffee?” she asked.
“Don’t make any,” he said.
“It’s made; I just have to heat it up.”
“Okay,” he said, “thanks.” When she had returned to the kitchen, he said to Art, “How much do you pay for this?”
“Fifty-five dollars a month,” Art said. He asked how much the two of them earned.
“Counting what I g-g-get,” Art said, “we make around a hundred and fifty a month.” Jim thought: And over a third of it goes for rent. “They really have you,” he said, “on rent.”
“Yeah,” Art said fatalistically. “But this isn’t bad for these days. Some places we saw, they w-w-wanted sixty and seventy. And they weren’t as good as this.”
“How are you going to get along when the baby comes? Have you made any plans?” Art shuffled his feet. “We’ll be okay.”
“What’re you going to buy food with? She can’t keep on working.” In the kitchen, Rachael shut off the water and came to the doorway. Her eyes, dilated and dark, fixed on him “That’s what his brother says.”
He was cowed. “But what’s the answer? You earn two-thirds of your combined income; that’ll cease when you quit your job.”
“Do you have any money?” Rachael said.
“Some.”
“Well,” she said, “why don’t you give it to us?” Then she smiled. “You’re all white. I scared you.”
“Yes,” he said. “But not the money.”
“I know. You’d give it to us, wouldn’t you?”
“I would,” he said. “But you wouldn’t take it.”
She returned to the kitchen. “We hardly even know you.”
“You do,” he said.
“Not real well. Not that well.”
Art said, “We got l-l-lots of money. We got over a h-h-hundred bucks saved up.”
“Let me match it,” he said suddenly.
“Aw, ha, no. Hell.” Art laughed anxiously.
“Come on,” he said, wanting to.
“Hell, no,” Art said.
But he needed to. “What can I do?” he said.
“For what?” Rachael said, appearing with the pot of coffee.
“I’d like to do something to help.”
Neither of them answered. They were both a little surly. Like cats, he thought. Like the puma at the zoo. He had pestered them too much.
“You haven’t got the slightest ability to deal with your problems,” he said. “You’re living here in this slum without money—you’re not living like adults. You’re living like God knows what.”
“Because we don’t have any money?” Rachael said.
He said, “I’m afraid something’ll happen to you. And there’s nothing I can do; I can’t help you.” Powerless, he thought. He was power less to affect their lives, to alter things in any manner. His program was gone, his contact with them; he did nothing, no work, no act that had any meaning. How futile it made him feel. How superfluous. “Can’t I buy yoti something?” he said.
“Just drink your coffee,” she said, placing the cup before him.
“Do you understand how I feel?” he demanded, ignoring the coffee.
Standing before him with the coffeepot, she said, “You can buy something for the baby. Some clothes. When the time comes, I’ll write out what size and color.”
Returning to the kitchen, she seated herself at the table; with her recipe books open, she prepared dinner.
7
On Saturday night a visitor rapped at Ludwig Grimmelman’s locked metal door.
“Who is it?” Grimmelman said, not recognizing the knock. From a wall rack, he took down an Army M1 rifle; sweeping up the secret documents and reports he had been preparing, he stuffed them into a briefcase, closed the snap, and pushed them into a hiding place. He turned off the light and stood in darkness, hearing his own breathing. “What do you want?”
“Mr. Grimmelman?” the voice said, a man’s voice.
Grimmelman went to a side window, unfastened the catch, raised it, and peered out A man was standing in the outside stairwell, a heavyset man in a topcoat, wearing a hat and a pressed suit. He was middleaged; he seemed to be a salesman, probably an insurance salesman.