“Is your mother home?”
“She went to the station to get him. They ought to be back in about eleven minutes. That’s how old I am.”
“Eleven minutes?”
“Eleven years. I had my birthday last week. You want to see me do some pushups?”
“All right.”
“Come in, I’ll show you.”
I followed him into a living-room which was dominated by a large brick fireplace with a raised hearth. Everything in the room was so new and clean, the furniture so carefully placed around it, that it seemed forbidding. The boy flung himself down in the middle of the green broadloom carpet:
“Watch me.”
He did a series of pushups, until his arms collapsed under him. He got up panting like a dog on a hot day:
“Now that I got the knack, I can do pushups all night if I want to.”
“You wouldn’t want to wear yourself out.”
“Shucks, I’m strong. Mr. Steele says I’m very strong for my age, it’s just my co-ordination. Here, feel my muscle.”
He pulled up the sleeve of his jersey, flexed his biceps, and produced an egg-sized lump. I palpated this:
“It’s hard.”
“That’s from doing pushups. You think I’m big for my age, or just average?”
“A pretty fair size, I’d say.”
“As big as you when you were eleven?”
“Just about.”
“How big are you now?”
“Six feet or so.”
“How much do you weigh?”
“About one-ninety.”
“Did you ever play football?”
“Some, in high school.”
“Do you think, will I ever get to be a football player?” he said wistfully.
“I don’t see why not.”
“That’s my ambition, to be a football player.”
He darted out of the room and was back in no time with a football which he threw at me from the doorway.
“Y. A. Tittle,” he said.
I caught the ball and said: “Hugh McElhenny.”
This struck him as very funny. He laughed until he fell down. Being in position, he did a few pushups.
“Stop it. You’re making me tired.”
“I never get tired,” he bragged exhaustedly. “When I get through doing pushups, I’m going to take a run around the block.”
“Don’t tell me. It wears me out.”
A car turned into the driveway. The boy struggled to his feet:
“That’s Mummy and Daddy now. I’ll tell them you’re here, Mr. Steele.”
“My name is Archer. Who’s Mr. Steele?”
“My coach in the Little League. I got you mixed up with him, I guess.”
It didn’t bother him, but it bothered me. It was a declaration of trust, and I didn’t know what I was going to have to do to his mother.
She came in alone. Her face hardened and thinned when she saw me:
“What do you want? What are you doing with my son’s football?”
“Holding it. He threw it to me. I’m holding it.”
“We were making like Forty-niners,” the boy said. But the laughter had gone out of him.
“Leave my son alone, you hear me?” She turned on the boy: “James, your father is in the garage. You can help him bring in the groceries. And take that football with you.”
“Here.” I tossed him the ball. He carried it out as if it was made of iron. The door closed behind him. “He’s a likely boy.”
“A lot you care, coming here to badger me. I talked to the police this morning. I don’t have to talk to you.”
“I think you want to, though.”
“I can’t. My husband – he doesn’t know.”
“What doesn’t he know?”
“Please.” She moved toward me rapidly, heavily, almost as though she was falling, and grasped my arm. “Ron will be coming in any minute. You won’t force me to talk in front of him?”
“Send him away.”
“How can I? He wants his dinner.”
“You need something from the store.”
“But we just came from the store.”
“Think of something else.”
Her eyes narrowed to two black glittering slits. “Damn you. You come in here disrupting my life. What did I do to bring this down on me?”
“That’s the question that needs answering, Mrs. Matheson.”
“Won’t you go away and come back later?”
“I have other things to do later. Let’s get this over with.”
“I only wish I could.”
The back door opened. She pulled away from me. Her face smoothed out and became inert, like the face of someone dying.
“Sit down,” she said. “You might as well sit down.”
I sat on the edge of an overstuffed chesterfield covered with hard shiny green brocade. Footsteps crossed the kitchen, and paper rustled. A man raised his voice:
“Marian, where are you?”
“I’m in here,” she said tightly.
Her husband appeared in the doorway. Matheson was a thin small man in a gray suit who looked about five years younger than his wife. He stared at me through his glasses with the belligerence of his size. It was his wife he spoke to:
“I didn’t know you had a visitor.”
“Mr. Archer is Sally Archer’s husband. You’ve heard me speak of Sally Archer, Ron.” In spite of his uncomprehending look, she rushed on: “I promised to send her a cake for the church supper, and I forgot to bake it. What am I going to do?”
“You’ll have to skip it.”
“I can’t. She’s depending on me. Ron, would you go downtown and bring me a cake for Mr. Archer to take to Sally? Please?”
“Now?” he said with disgust.
“It’s for tonight. Sally’s waiting for it.”
“Let her wait.”
“But I can’t. You wouldn’t want it to get around that I didn’t do my share.”
He turned out his hands in resignation. “How big a cake does it have to be?”
“The two-dollar size will do. Chocolate. You know the bakery at the shopping center.”
“But that’s way over on the other side of town.”
“It’s got to be good, Ron. You don’t want to shame me in front of my friends.”
Some of her real feeling was caught in the words. His eyes jabbed at me and returned to her face, searching it:
“Listen, Marian, what’s the trouble? Are you okay?”
“Certainly I’m okay.” She produced a smile. “Now run along like a good boy and bring me that cake. You can take Jimmy with you, and I’ll have supper ready when you get back.”
Matheson went out, slamming the door behind him in protest. I heard his car engine start, and sat down again:
“You’ve got him well trained.”
“Please leave my husband out of this. He doesn’t deserve trouble.”
“Does he know the police were here?”
“No, but the neighbors will tell him. And then I’ll have to do some more lying. I hate this lying.”
“Stop lying.”
“And let him know I’m mixed up in a murder? That would be just great.”
“Which murder are you talking about?”
She opened her mouth. Her hand flew up to cover it. She forced her hand down to her side and stood very still, like a sentinel guarding her hearth.
“Culligan’s?” I said. “Or the murder of John Brown?”
The name struck her like a blow in the mouth. She was too shaken to speak for a minute. Then she gathered her forces and straightened up and said:
“I don’t know any John Brown.”
“You said you hated lying, but you’re doing it. You worked for him in the winter of 1936, looking after his wife and baby.”
She was silent. I brought out one of my pictures of Anthony Galton and thrust it up to her face:
“Don’t you recognize him?”
She nodded resignedly. “I recognize him. It’s Mr. Brown.”