“I want a dog,” Paul said. “That’s what I want, is a dog as big as a pony to ride and sleep in my bed and I sleep on the floor, or maybe both of us sleep in the bed.”
Ruth laughed, and stroked his hair gently. “Ah, I’m afraid Mother wouldn’t like that.”
“I’m afraid she wouldn’t,” Elaine said with a smile.
“I want a small dog,” Judith said, “to go in my baby buggy.”
Elaine put on her sweetly reasonable expression. The children recognized it and knew what was coining. They waited, bored and resentful, for the judge to lay down the law and hurry out of court.
“Now children, I believe we’ve settled the dog question before. We’re going to get a dog when I feel that you’re both old enough to appreciate a dog and take the responsibility of looking after it properly.”
“Ruth has a dog named Wendy,” Judith said. “Ruth says it’s a Heinz dog.”
“A what?” Elaine said.
“A Heinz dog, fifty-seven varieties.” Judith howled with laughter, and Paul joined in, laughing even harder than Judith because he didn’t understand the joke.
“Hush now,” Elaine said. “Be quiet. We’ll be later than usual tonight, Ruth, but Dr. Foster will drive you home and you can take a nap if you like.”
“Oh, I won’t get tired, Mrs. Foster, I never do.”
“Don’t wake the baby to give him his bottle. He’ll wake up about eleven or so. I guess that’s all. Well, goodbye, children. Be good now, won’t you?”
She hesitated for a moment, half-hoping the children would come over and kiss her goodbye. They made no move, so she waved goodbye to them from the doorway, very gaily, with her arm feeling heavy as lead.
Gordon was waiting in the car with the engine running (indicating, to Elaine, impatience). He looked tired (sulky), and he had taken off the hat which was too hot and heavy on his head (fussing about his costume).
“Did I keep you waiting?” Elaine asked, getting into the car awkwardly so she wouldn’t disarrange her mantilla or dirty the white lace skirt.
“No.”
“You must have gotten gas if you went for that long drive today. The gas tank’s nearly full.”
“That would be the first thing you’d notice, wouldn’t it?”
Elaine widened her eyes. “Well, my goodness, I wasn’t checking up on you. I always look to see how much gas we have.”
“O.K.”
“And if you’re mad because I kept you waiting all of two minutes, well, all I can say is, you might at least have stopped to say hello to Ruth. She’s very sensitive about lapses in good manners, you know that.”
“I didn’t know that. I hardly know her, so I couldn’t be expected to know she’s sensitive.”
“She’s got a very sensitive face.”
“Good.”
“You’re certainly in a mood tonight, Gordon. I hope you’re not going to sulk all evening the way you did at the Lamberts’ party.”
“I can’t remember sulking at the Lamberts’ party. I can’t even remember the Lamberts.”
“It was right after we were married. They’re moved away now.”
“Your memory has a long arm, hasn’t it, Elaine?”
“I never forget any unpleasant scenes, if that’s what you mean. Who does?”
“A lot of people.”
“I’m not one of these soft-headed women who forgets a quarrel just because it ends in a kiss. If a quarrel took place, then I’m justified in remembering it, surely. Anyway, people can’t help themselves from remembering things.”
“I guess not.”
All the way to the U-Club Gordon tried to recall the Lamberts and couldn’t.
He parked the car in the palm-lined driveway and locked the doors.
The club was an L-shaped structure made of adobe brick. Here, the more successful men of the community — the professional men, lawyers, doctors, real-estate agents, retired army and navy officers — found a sanctuary from their wives and families. They lunched and dined, played poker and billiards and gin rummy, secure in the knowledge that no female trespasser could get past the front door. About once a month a special entertainment was held in the form of mildly dirty movies. No one, not even the head waiter in the dining room who ran the projection machine, knew where these movies came from, or who owned or rented them. This uncertainty gave rise to considerable speculation, especially among the members who were embarrassed and disgusted by the movies and were afraid the members of the Don Cabrillo Club would find out about them and act even more insufferably superior. Suspicion settled on various members, and there was a great deal of dissension and hard feeling in the club. Mr. Westervelt, who sold insurance, was one of the chief suspects because he liked to look at women’s legs. He subsequently resigned, refused to pay his outstanding bill, and threatened to sue everybody in the club for slander, including the bus boys. Dr. Lavery, who took Westervelt’s place as chief suspect because he’d had three wives, was made of sterner stuff. He wrote a scathing letter to the newspaper, and only the fact that the publisher of the paper was a loyal member of the U-Club prevented the scandal from becoming public.
No one member was entirely free from suspicion except Judge of the Superior Court, old Anton Bowridge. A childless widower, Bowridge led a dull life. Nearly every day he sat on the judge’s bench amid the somber beauty of the Superior Court. The high windows were heavily draped against the sun. The chandeliers that hung threateningly from the ceiling gave just enough light to accentuate the gloom, the twilight of guilt. No one in the court ever felt like a free man, least of all Bowridge.
The judge’s bench was a masterpiece of design. It looked comfortable, and yet it was just uncomfortable enough to prevent one from going to sleep. Sometimes he sat upright, sometimes he held his head in both hands, or rested his chin in his right hand, then his left hand; he crossed his legs and leaned way over on the right, or the left. But always the chair prodded him sternly in the vertebrae, the eyes of the chandelier accused him of inattention, and conscience lurked in the rigid drapes of the closed windows.
Bowridge had no interest in watching the movies himself. He had spent most of his life in courtrooms and there was nothing that he hadn’t seen or heard. His interest lay in watching the people who watched the movies — Johnston kept opening and closing his eyes, repelled, fascinated; poor old Coolidge often had sneezing fits, and the young architect with the buck teeth (McTavish? MacGregor? McSomething) cleared his throat, ahem! Afterwards they were all embarrassed, they smiled sheepishly at each other, some of them left in a hurry and others stayed around to discuss the question of where the movies came from. They asked Judge Bowridge if it wasn’t illegal to make or possess these movies and Bowridge ruled that it was, but that they were not, however, to accuse any one member of being the guilty party unless they were convinced, beyond a reasonable doubt and to a moral certainty, that such was the case.
Watching the watchers not only amused Bowridge, they restored to him some faith, not in the essential goodness of most people, but in their essential harmlessness. The poor fellows, they felt so guilty at watching the movies it was impossible to imagine them committing a felony. They were really quite simple, harmless fellows who would never crack a safe, take a potshot at their wives, embezzle or commit mayhem. Simple assault, perhaps (no deadly weapon, no intent to kill), or manslaughter involving a motor accident — but none of them, he was convinced, would ever repeat the crime. Their sins were little, their fears great, their lives short, and always in store for them was the Superior-Superior Court with God on the bench (looking a little like Bowridge except that He had a beard), God on the hard bench with an aching back, a little weary and bored, given to inattention, leaning His chin on His right hand, then His left hand, and wondering why someone didn’t push aside the drapes and open the windows and turn off the infernal lights of the chandelier.