The voice said, “Filth! You’re forcing her! Black filth!”
Mel jerked his head to the left, to his open window.
Beth-Anne straightened.
They both saw the fat man. And the long gun.
“He wasn’t forcing me!” Beth-Anne said. “If that’s what you’re worried about, forget it!”
“She’s my wife, Mel said, shoving his wilting penis back inside his fly. And knowing what he knew about Whitey, added, “She’s Negro too, but it doesn’t show,” Negro because some nuts hated the word black.
The gun was in the window, but the man didn’t seem sure what to do. So Mel reached for the ignition, still talking: “Too much wine with dinner. Spur of the moment. Married folks on a lark. You got every right to be disgusted. Never happen again.”
Beth-Anne was frozen, eyes glued to the gun. Her big show-girl tits were hanging out, and the fat man was staring at them. Mel didn’t know if that would help or hurt and was ready to burn rubber.
“Get your hand away!” the fat man said, and Mel let go of the key. The fat man looked around quickly, and so did Mel, and there was no one there, no one to help.
“Show me your licenses,” the fat man said. “If your last names match, I’ll let you go.”
Mel smiled, relief washing over him like a cool wave. He turned to Beth-Anne. “Make yourself presentable, dear.”
She said, “Presentable?” and then, “Oh!” and began stuffing her boobs back inside her dress.
The fat man leaned closer, breathing loudly. The gun moved inside the car, right in front of Mel’s face, which wasn’t very professional. Mel could grab it . . .
But he was the wrong guy for heroics. Besides, it could go off in Beth-Anne’s direction.
And why bother when the licenses would prove they were married and the freak would let them go?
Mel took out his wallet, and only then remembered the five thousand. He began to sweat. If he lost the money, he knew he would lose Beth-Anne. And Christ, he hated to wait more months!
The gun hiccupped and jerked in front of his face, then drew back out of the window. Mel turned to Beth-Anne. She was falling over against the opposite door. There was a sharp smell, a burning smell, and Mel remembered it from Italy and Monte Casino where he’d been a cook in Mark Clark’s Eighth Army and there’d been no need for cooks during three terrible days of assault when the burning smell and dead men had been everywhere.
Beth-Anne had a small spot close to her ear. It leaked a little.
Mel said, “Dear Jesus,” and turned to his window; turned directly into that extended barrel. He wanted to beg and grovel and live. And said, “Dirty white fuck!” and reached for the gun.
As soon as he walked into the house, Lila went at him.
“What were you doing in the back yard just now? And don’t play dumb . . . I heard you clearly. And where were you anyway! I called the store and it was closed two hours ago!”
Before he conld begin to answer, she said, “Just look at you, Frank Berdon! Your hair . . . your face!”
He stepped quickly from the kitchen to the foyer mirror, expecting blood . . . and there was nothing. His hair was slightly mussed in front; he was somewhat sweaty, somewhat pale.
He stepped back into the kitchen, to where she sat at the table, a cup in her hand. “I’d like some coffee too,” he said. He spoke quietly, to make sure his voice would remain steady.
“Then get it!”
He went to the electric coffee machine and poured a cup. His hand shook, and he blocked it from her view by turning away. He took several long sips before facing her. “That lilac bush in back is dying.”
She began to say something about it being dark out, and he interrupted: “A little water in the morning, a little at night, and maybe we’ll save it. It takes only a moment to turn on the hose.”
“Idiocy,” she muttered, but she was subsiding.
“As for being late,” he said, raising his cup, his hand steadier now, “I drove Martin home. His car wouldn’t start.” He came to the table and sat down. “We pushed it, and I guess I over-exerted myself.” He brushed at his hair, his face. “Could you get me something to eat?”
“Over-exerted yourself,” she muttered, rising. “You were deathly pale.”
“Short of breath. Comes of being overweight. We really must stick to our diets, dear.”
She worked around the stove. “I exerted myself a bit today too.” Her voice had softened, and he recognized that sudden change of tone.
“My mother?”
She turned. “That’s why I was so testy just now. I needed you tonight.”
He sat waiting, the blood beginning to pound in his temples. When she hesitated, he said, “I’ll just go to her room . . .”
“She’s not there. She’s at Cedars-Sinai Hospital, Intensive Care.”
He was standing without knowing it, “Oh, God.” He started for the foyer.
“There’s no point in going now, Frank. She’s in a coma. They’ll call when she regains consciousness.”
She made him sit down and served him dinner. He ate a lot, gulping, asking for more, as he always did when upset. She told him what had happened.
At four, she’d been preparing the lamb stew he was eating. His mother had come into the kitchen and begun making herself a sandwich. Lila had stopped her, saying it would spoil her dinner. His mother had been in an “irrational mood,” and stormed out of the house. Lila had followed immediately, but before she could catch the old lady, there was an accident.
“She walked right in front of a car.”
Frank soaked up gravy with a fifth slice of bread, and groaned. “Christ, couldn’t you have let her have her sandwich?”
“It’s too late for that, Frank! I blamed myself enough while waiting here for you!” She wiped at her eyes.
He muttered, “Yes, sorry. What did the doctors say?”
“Really, she was lucky. It could have been much worse. She has a broken hip. In falling, she also fractured her skull, and that’s causing the coma. But they feel there’s a good chance she’ll regain consciousness . . .”
The phone rang. “Maybe that’s the hospital,” she said, and ran to the wall unit near the foyer. He took another slice of bread.
“This is Mrs. Berdon,” she said. “Oh, wonderful! We’ll be right over. I know it’s late, but Dr. Meade promised we could see her, if only for a moment. Yes . . . thank you!”
She hung up. “She’s regained consciousness! We can go now, Frank.”
He was sagging in his chair. He was stuffed with food, emptied of emotion, eyes heavy, truly exhausted.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Have to lie down a moment,” he mumbled, and pulled himself out of the chair and stumbled to the bedroom, where he fell face forward on the bed and into a deep sleep.
The man and woman had been found at about eleven p.m.; the first black-and-white had arrived at eleven-twenty, the ambulance almost immediately afterward. Larry Admer had been called at home, and pulled up to the scene as the ambulance was disappearing down the street, siren winding into high gear. He took the two responding officers aside to get whatever information they had.
“Middle-aged