The Accused Part 2

In the car Morlock worried aloud. "Suppose it got back to the college," he said. "I don't think Dean Gorham would stand for it."

Dodson's somewhat pathetic bad-boyishness was increasing in direct ratio to their distance from Ludlow. "Stand for what?" he snorted. "We're just going to take a room in a hotel and go out for a good time. Even a teacher is ent.i.tled to a vacation."

Morlock said uncertainly, "It isn't just that. I mean if we got into any trouble. With the hotel, for instance."

Dodson whooped delightedly and slapped Morlock's thigh. "h.e.l.l," he laughed, "We're not staying at the Biltmore. The hotel we're going to doesn't care if you bring women up to your room. By G.o.d, if you haven't got one of your own they'll get one for you!"

Providence was twelve miles over the state line from Ludlow. Dodson drove the distance, not without skill, in less than half an hour and parked the old car in a public garage. "We'll leave it," he said, winking at Morlock. "I don't want to be able to drive tonight. We'll use, cabs."

The hotel to which he led Morlock was on a side street, a red brick building with bars on either side. The lobby smelled of antiseptic. It was, Morlock admitted, clean enough. Dodson said as they entered, "Wait here, Al. I'll register for both of us. What will we get--two adjoining singles?"

Morlock agreed and watched Dodson head for the desk, extending his hand in greeting to the desk clerk like an old and valued customer. He failed to note any similar reaction on the part of the desk clerk who appeared more bored than enthusiastic. Dodson, he supposed, could not help--what was the expression?--making a production out of his simplest act. He wondered what whimsical destiny had made Dodson a teacher rather than a salesman, say, or a bartender.

Dodson returned, waving two keys triumphantly. "All set," he said happily. He glanced at Morlock's suitcase. "Want me to get a bellhop?"

Morlock had seen no attendant in the lobby. He declined, and the two men rode the elevator to the third floor.

They ate in a small Italian restaurant on Federal Hill. "You'll see what genuine Italian cooking is like," Dodson had shouted, managing to convey contempt for all other cuisines. Actually the restaurant was dirty and smelly; the spaghetti flaccid and overcooked, its shortcomings poorly disguised with red, garlic-heavy sauce. Dodson ordered a bottle of Chianti with the meal. He seemed to enjoy playing the host, the worldly gourmet. He ate hungrily. Morlock ate little. He was amused by Dodson's a.s.sumption of the role of host, which seemed a little ridiculous since they had carefully agreed in the hotel room to share all costs evenly. Still, Morlock was gradually awakening to the promise of the evening.

They sought a bar after Dodson had tried to order cafe Espresso from the waitress who had never heard of it and who looked at Dodson as if she thought he were a little crazy.

The bar they found was one of twenty in an area of a few blocks. It outdid its neighbors in the matter of neon and there was a canvas canopy leading from the sidewalk to what was designated a Ladies Entrance. Dodson said confidently, "In here, Al. I'll do the talking. You should have seen the chick I met here last time!"

Dodson, Morlock supposed, had a hundred expressions which could be defined as meaning women in various states of willingness and availability. "Chick," was no more irritating than "stuff" or "bag." All three made him uncomfortable, affecting him in much the same manner as the advertis.e.m.e.nts for soup and cake mix and soda pop that made a fetish out of leaving the a and d out of the conjunction and in the unshakable conviction that this indicated the unqualified approval * of the children who were supposed to speak in such a manner. b.u.t.ter' n eggs! Chicks 'n stuff! He laughed at the thought, told himself not to be a stuffy d.a.m.n fool and followed Dodson into the bar entrance.

They stepped down into a low-ceilinged room with a stamped tin ceiling. The place featured low lights--the brightest glow in the room came from a pin ball machine that stood in a far corner. The bar itself took up half of one wall and was interrupted by a set of three stairs leading upward toward the dance floor which had its own bar.

Dodson led the way to the bar in the low room, asking generously, "What will you have, Al?" which was unnecessary. They had already agreed to drink draught beer. ("Until we get a chance to look around and see what's loose," Dodson had said.) Morlock, looking around him, saw half a dozen men seated on the high stools that lined the bar. They seemed friendly enough, as one or two nodded; but there was a withdrawal common to such occasions. The men at the bar were regulars or they had established their worth by having been in the place for an hour or more and having spent an appropriate amount of money. Morlock and Dodson were new and therefore strangers.

The bartender served their gla.s.ses. Dodson drank his quickly and noisily. Morlock could feel the Chianti warming his stomach. He told himself again not to be stuffy and drank his beer. They ordered more and Dodson, who was speaking louder, began a conversation with the man next to him. He dragged Morlock into the discussion. "This is a friend of mine," he said pompously. "A professor. Al, this is--what did you say your name was?"

The man said, "Snapper," and signaled for drinks. "Glad to know you, Professor."

Morlock could feel his own natural reserve melting, dissolving in a tide of beer. He protested--it was not more than a token protest--that he was not really a professor but managed to leave the implication that he could be if he wanted to. And he signaled for a round himself, knowing that he was on the verge of drunkenness. The man who called himself Snapper was of his own age, with thinning light hair and a scar running from his cheekbone to the point of his jaw. He fingered the scar continually.

"Got this in an accident a month ago," he explained. "We were going down to Attleboro at two o'clock in the morning drunk as a hoot owl. I just got my car back yesterday."

In the s.p.a.ce of two hours Snapper became their friend. Dodson proclaimed this with great and solemn conviction. Morlock, in a golden haze himself, recognized that Dodson was quite drunk and forgave him for it in the same moment. A rare tolerance had come upon him, and he did not resent Dodson even when he loudly explained to Snapper that they were footloose and anxious for company.

Snapper--he was drinking whisky instead of beer by this time--nodded his head wisely. "You came to the right place," he congratulated them. "In half an hour or so when the band comes in there'll be so many in there you'll have to beat them off with a club."

They waited for the band to arrive. The waiting reminded Morlock of other days, high school dances, the few others he had been able to go to when the youths would hang around outside the auditorium waiting for the music to start and pretending to be tremendously bored with it all and all the time yearning for the pretty girls inside the building. When the music started in the next room he and Dodson hung back for another drink so that Snapper would not think them eager. Except that now it was no longer simply a matter of pretty girls....

Prosecution Attorney Gurney: Your name is Gino Fangio?

Fangio: It is.

Gurney: You are known as Snapper, are you not?

Fangio: They call me that sometimes.

Gurney: When did you first meet the accused?

Fangio: Sometime before Christmas.

Gurney: I'll refresh your memory. It was December 22, Thursday, wasn't it?

Fangio: I guess so, if you say so.

Gurney: In a barroom?

Fangio: Yes.

Gurney: Was he drunk at the time?

Liebman: Objection.

Cameron: Sustained.

Gurney: Was he drinking at the time you met him?

Fangio: A few, I guess. He and that other guy were out for a good time. n.o.body was going to get hurt.

Gurney: Were you with Morlock for the rest of the evening?

Fangio: Well, about that time, he and the other guy-- Gurney: Mr. Dodson.

Fangio: Yeah, Dodson. He and Morlock went into the dance hall. I stayed out at the bar.

Gurney: Did they state their purpose in going into the dance hall?

Fangio: They wanted women. Dodson was-- Liebman: Your Honor, that is speculative.

Cameron: The last statement will be stricken. Do you wish to take an exception, Mr. Gurney?

Gurney: No, Your Honor. Snapper--Mr. Fangio--you stated that you stayed at the bar. Isn't it true that if you wished to meet an unescorted woman you would have gone with them into the dance hall?

Fangio: Yes.

Gurney:. Women frequented the place?

Fangio: A lot of them came there.

Gurney: Without escorts?

Fangio: A lot of them came stag.

Gurney: In other words, it was a good place for a man to meet a woman without the usual conventions. Did you tell the accused that it was such a place?

Fangio: Maybe I did. I guess I did.

Gurney: What were your words as you remember them?

Fangio: I said that they could probably get fixed up if they went in and looked around.

Gurney: And was it right after that that they went in?

Fangio: Yes.

The Commonwealth of Ma.s.sachusetts vs. Alvin Morlock. Direct testimony of Gino Fangio.

Morlock and Dodson walked in to the dance floor together, in pretended deep conversation, pointedly not looking around until they were seated at a small table. There were other men going back and forth. Most of these boldly looked around the room, making audible comments on what they saw, and returned to the main bar again.

They ordered drinks and kept up the conversation. "Look at those cheap characters," Dodson said contemptuously. "I've seen 'em before. They don't want to get stuck buying drinks so they wait until the girls order before they go over and start moving in."

Morlock agreed that this was so. He was less and less interested in Dodson's conversation now and more and more interested in the people--most of them women in twos and threes. In the dim light it was hard to distinguish features but there were two girls--in their early twenties, he guessed--in a near-by booth and both of them seemed attractive. One of them caught his glance and smiled tentatively.

Dodson dropped all pretense. "See anything good?" he asked anxiously.

"Over in the booth," Morlock said. "What do you think?"

Dodson peered eagerly in the direction of the booth. "They're looking over here," he whispered excitedly.

"They're not pigs either." Still looking toward the booth he suddenly swore. "Dammit. Look at those two punks!"

Morlock turned slightly so that he could see without being obvious. Two youths were approaching the booth. They were, both of them, tall. Both were dressed alike in dark suits that were conservative to the point of being ostentatious. Morlock felt a wholly unreasonable fury at the two intruders. He and Dodson had seen the girls first. The two youths spoke briefly to the girls who then stood up and came into their arms. They danced toward the table occupied by Dodson and Morlock.

Dodson began swearing in a monotone. Morlock, afraid that he might be overheard, attempted to quiet him. "Maybe they came together," he said.

Dodson muttered, "Like h.e.l.l," and bent to his drink.

Morlock shrugged. "We'll have to be quicker next time," he said.

The two girls danced closer. Morlock was not comforted by the knowledge that he had been right. They were pretty. Both had heart-shaped faces framed with ma.s.ses of dark hair. Both had good legs, slim and graceful. They looked like sisters, Morlock thought. One was slightly taller than the other. The shorter one--she was about Dodson's height--wore a white satin blouse. Underneath it she wore a bra.s.siere--Morlock could see the straps of it when she turned--that lifted her small round b.r.e.a.s.t.s delightfully. Her skirt was tight. When she leaned forward against her partner her b.u.t.tocks also looked small and round. Dodson watched avidly. "How would you like to pat that!" he demanded. He had recovered his good nature. "Didn't I tell you there was stuff here?"

The band stopped; the two couples returned to the booth--and the youths left. Morlock stood up. "I want the small one," he said.

Their names, it developed, were Audrey and Lucy--Audrey being the shorter of the two--and they were sisters. Also they drank whisky sours although there had been only beer bottles on the table when Morlock, with a boldness that surprised himself and impressed Dodson, had walked confidently to their table and asked, "Can we buy you a drink?" While he had moved toward their table, Dodson had remained in his seat, watching him eagerly but ready, Morlock was certain, to ridicule him if the girls rejected his offer. They did not and in his wonderful new cloak of confidence he had turned and beckoned casually to Dodson to come over.

As Dodson walked toward him, the new Morlock watched him with some feeling of superiority. Dodson, he thought, would have wagged his tail if he had had one.

Both of the girls worked in a jewelry shop. Both were in the office, they explained quickly. Morlock doubted it and this, too, increased the magnificent self-esteem that he now felt. They were lying to impress him--and Dodson too. Probably they were pearl dippers.

Dodson lost no time in explaining that they were members of the Ludlow faculty. Morlock faulted him for this. Dodson had, when it came right down to it, no faith in his own attractiveness or his own personality. He therefore attempted to reflect whatever light came from being a professional man. Had he not earlier referred to himself and Morlock as educated men? Morlock felt that he needed no crutch.

He was seated beside Audrey. The upper half of her white satin blouse flared sharply to her shoulders so that he could see the upper halves of her white b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and where yesterday he would have painfully avoided the appearance of glancing at them, he now openly stared--and felt his earlier resolution to find a decent girl and carry on a mild affair melt in a warm tide of desire. Audrey had, in a few sentences, exposed her own complete lack of mental or spiritual a.s.sets. She had, Morlock admitted, no need of them. Having admitted this, he devoted himself to appreciation of what she did hold for men--the appreciation being visual and verbal and in both cases completely acceptable to Audrey.

After an hour and many drinks, she began to press herself against him when they danced. The abstract Morlock noted that she had a magnificent awareness of her really beautiful body and an equal knowledge of the manner in which she might best activate it. He sighed for Dodson who seemed to be making no progress whatsoever with Lucy, and had sunk to the point where he was now trying to make her drink more than she could handle. Unfortunately, he had to order for himself as well as Lucy, the result being a shabby race between sobriety and s.e.x with Dodson ahead, if at all, only slightly.

Morlock danced twice with Lucy. She remarked that the band was good for a small outfit. Audrey had made this comment. She noted that there was a good crowd tonight. Audrey had made this observation, too. Morlock, having no designs on Lucy, was bored.

Another hour and Dodson was making definite progress. When the two girls left for the powder room after an appropriately cute explanation, he watched them sway away from the table and said pridefully, "I told you we'd find something in here!"

Morlock generously did not remind Dodson that he had made all the overtures.

Dodson continued, "She's hot. I'll bet we won't have any trouble getting them out of here and up to the hotel." There was in the manner he said it, Morlock thought, something suggestive of whistling in a graveyard, and he wondered how many times Dodson had come this far with one of his conquests and seen it the unconsummated.

They came back to the table, and Lucy said, "It's getting late. We've got to work tomorrow."

They had planned this gambit in the powder room, Morlock was certain. Strangely he was not particularly surprised or disappointed. Dodson's thick neck reddened. "We'll take you home," he said hopefully.

Audrey glanced at her sister and then back toward Morlock. "We've got our own car," she said.

Dodson half stood, and for a terrible moment Morlock was afraid that he was going to remind the girls of the money that he had spent on them. He did not. He controlled himself while they swayed away again. When they were out of hearing he began to curse them, viciously and obscenely.

Snapper consoled them in the lower bar. "I could have told you," he said sadly. "Those two pull that stunt pretty regular. You know what they did after they left your table?"

Dodson said sourly, "I don't think they went home."

Snapper swallowed his drink. "h.e.l.l, no. They've got regular boy friends. They leave them off in here to have a good time while they shoot pool across the street. You should have picked up something a little older. Those kids are only after what they can get. How much did you blow?"

Dodson said glumly, "Fifteen dollars."

Snapper whistled softly. "Too bad." He offered to help them make another choice; closing time was still an hour away. Morlock shook his head. He was feeling an exhilaration that was beyond anything he had experienced. He had never before reached this stage of drunkenness--usually he became quite sick after drinking half what he had tonight. He easily convinced himself that he had had no great desire for Audrey, that he could have had her if he had really wanted to. The way she had glanced at her sister before saying that they had their own car--he had practically sent her away. He glowed with his own n.o.bility.

Dodson was becoming increasingly maudlin and it was apparent that he would make no more conquests.

In the hour that remained before the bar closed, Morlock had several more drinks, trying to retain his mood. Strangely, his thoughts became clearer but the mood began to dissipate the moment they left the bar and walked through the streets to the hotel. He had some trouble with Dodson. By the time he undressed, the mood was entirely gone.

He had had for years a recurrent dream in which he was a boy. Awake, he could never remember the dream in its detail. He could only vaguely remember climbing green hills beside a lake where the mists rose slowly in the cool morning; and yet sometimes the dream was realer than reality--certainly it was happier than reality. In the dream he had a companion, usually a girl a year or two younger than himself. Morlock often courted the dream. He even made preparations for it, putting on fresh pajamas, fresh sheets on the bed. Like a bride preparing the wedding bed. He wooed the dream by returning in memory to his own childhood before falling asleep. He was not often successful and there was always the risk that the sweet pain of nostalgia would go unrewarded by the dream.

Tonight his memory was acute. Lying on the bed, he let it drift rapidly back, the quicker to escape the dreary hotel bedroom. As he usually did, he remembered best when he was twelve....

There was a green pasture littered with great out-croppings of the conglomerate rock they called puddingstone. Through the pasture a path made aimless progress into a cool glade where oak trees formed a park. Beyond the glade were low hills that dressed themselves in white and silver birch, in aspen and wild cherry, and in the spring the wild cherry sang with white blossom. Morlock remembered the way they looked and smelled. He could not have expressed the beauty of the trees in allegory at twelve as he could now but he was completely aware of that beauty. And there was the smell of gra.s.s and earth and leaves and the cows in the pasture and even their droppings; and these smells were picked up and blended by the west wind of spring so that the very smell was alive with promise. Beyond the low hills were the somewhat more somber pines and among the pines stood a colossal ma.s.s of that same puddingstone that dotted the pastures. It had been rolled up and left there like some toy by the glaciers, and it towered above the pines and hemlocks that soughed mournfully beneath it. There were ledges and faults in the ma.s.s and crevices and niches where arrowheads could be found and occasional shards of broken pottery. They called this Abram's Rock after the legendary Indian who had plunged from it after the death of his bride. Here Morlock, when there was time, played the wonderful games that could be played upon such a mighty site. Here, when he was twelve, came Marian, a grave child of ten with black hair that hung down her back to her waist after the manner of an old-fas.h.i.+oned ill.u.s.tration of Alice in Wonderland. Morlock was with some other boys of his own age; when they saw her standing quietly near them there was a rustle of whispering and snickering. "There she is," one boy said. "The Portagee kid."

Morlock remembered then that a Portuguese family from the Cape Verde islands had moved into a worn-out farm not far from Abram's Rock. There had been some loose and irresponsible indignation. "Ain't no difference between a n.i.g.g.e.r and a Portagee. One's as black as the other."

This was the first member of the family he had seen and she seemed to be just like any other girl or boy he knew. Her skin was no darker than his own would be at the end of the summer. Her eyes were blue and set wide apart in her oval face. Morlock had been born on the shabby-genteel side of absolute poverty; he knew hand-me-down and make-do as brothers and he could recognize the signals of poverty in the girl's clothing. She wore a simple dress of some gray material. It was clean but there was a patch in the skirt and it fitted her in the shapeless manner of a larger garment that had been taken in. He was too familiar with the device to miss it. She wore a worn pair of boy's shoes and her legs were bare. Morlock, out of the kins.h.i.+p of poverty, felt sorry for her.

One of the youngsters in the group called suddenly, "Hey, Portagee I Who said you could climb on our rock?"

And another boy, "Sure. Let's chase her on home."

She stood her ground bravely but Morlock could see that she was frightened. She said in a low voice, "My fa'der say I can play here."