The Accused Part 7

Davis: He seemed sort of... fuzzy.

Gurney: How long was he gone?

Davis: An hour and a half, maybe.

Gurney: Did you see him again on subsequent days?

Davis: Sure. After that he came every Sunday. He'd park the car and walk across the fields.

The Commonwealth of Ma.s.sachusetts vs. Alvin Morlock. Direct testimony of William Davis.

When he had made his way to the top of the rock, Morlock sought out a sunny spot protected from the wind and sat down, giving himself over to a sort of bitter nostalgia. The rock had called to him and he had come, drawn to it by all the powers of memory. Not all the memories were pleasant; he had come here when his father died, when he was twelve. He had never known his father well; he remembered him not as a parent but as a wasted, infinitely patient man who spent his days and his months and years in a ground-floor bedroom. Morlock did not see him often but he did remember his eyes, dulled with pain and shame. He had some illness that they did not speak of. Morlock's mother, each day of her life, performed some service for her husband from which she would return, closing the bedroom door softly behind her while she closed her eyes for a moment in weary repugnance. She never complained aloud.

Morlock had two older sisters; these two, with his mother, made all the preparations for the funeral, leaving him very much to himself. A few aunts and uncles came. Morlock saw that these were as poor as his own immediate family. He had no suit for the ceremony and there was no money--there never was--to buy one. His mother made over a gray flannel suit that had been given to one of his sisters during a period of service as a maid. He wore this to the church and to the cemetery.

It rained steadily during the actual burial. At twelve, just beginning to be conscious of his clothes, he stood in the rain, self-consciously aware of the ill-fitting suit and of the ragged haircut one of the uncles had given him at the last moment. To compensate for his clothes, he stood as straight as he could so that some of the spa.r.s.e gathering patted him on the head and said, "There's a little man."

When it was over and they gathered in the living room of their house to make plans, Morlock hurried to his room and changed his clothes. Slipping out of the back door so that no one would see him and call to him to stay in the house, he made his way through the fields to Abram's Rock, the wet gra.s.s whipping his bare legs as he ran. Near the top of the rock was a great crevice that was bridged by a fallen tree, making a shelter of sorts. He climbed to the crevice and crawled beneath the tree so that he was partially protected from the rain. Then, only then, he began to cry, his head tucked against his drawn-up knees. He cried partly out of the aching, conventional sorrow of a boy at losing his father, but also out of pity for the man who had spent those years in that musty smelling bedroom and out of grief for the shame in that man's eyes.

When he was finished with crying he looked up, not having heard anyone approaching but sensing a presence, and saw at the level of his vision a pair of bare brown legs emerging from a skirt of some coa.r.s.e material. He came out from beneath his shelter to see the Portagee kid--he so identified her in his quick, shamed anger at being found in tears--standing quite still and gravely watching him.

He said petulantly, "What are you doing out in the rain, kid? Don't you have any sense?"

She said quietly, "You're out in it. Why were you crying?"

He bent his head and tried to steady his voice. "My father died," he said.

She skipped across the crevice and slid down beside him, sitting as still as he. "I'm sorry," she said. "My mother died when I was eight."

For perhaps several minutes neither of them spoke again. Morlock no longer resented her presence; she no longer intruded in his grief but rather shared it and made it lighter for him. After a time he said, "You shouldn't be out in this rain. You'll catch your death of cold." Unconsciously, speaking to this child younger than himself, he parroted the words his mother had used a hundred times.

She shrugged. "Where I used to live it rains all the time. n.o.body minds it. Besides," she gestured in the direction of the farm where her people lived, "everybody is drunk back there. They always get drunk when they can't go out and work in the fields."

Morlock was shocked by the blunt explanation. Drunkenness was a disgrace and a shameful thing that people spoke about in whispers. He felt pity for this child who spoke of it so calmly without knowing what she was saying. He said uneasily, "I'm sorry."

She shrugged. "It doesn't matter. They hit each other and throw things. By and by they go to sleep. It doesn't matter." Morlock found her accent pretty and wished she would speak more. She stood up. "I guess they asleep now. I go get something to eat. You hungry, boy?"

Morlock shook his head.

"We can sneak into the kitchen and get something if you like," she said.

"I guess I'd better go home myself," he said. He started the descent to the ground. When he was halfway down he looked back. She was standing where he had left her. When she saw him looking back, she called, "I'm sorry about your father. You come here tomorrow?"

Because he was a boy he called back casually, "I guess so. Maybe." But on the way home he felt an odd antic.i.p.ation at the thought of seeing her again.

His mother was alone in the kitchen when he came in the house; the uncles, the aunts and the sisters were in the parlor. She looked at him, wet and forlorn in the doorway. They were an undemonstrative family, but she made a rare gesture. She came toward him and dropped to her knees and hugged him wordlessly.

They were used to being poor, but hardly as poor as they were in the time directly after his father's death. There were periods when they were actually hungry. Morlock helped as much as a young boy could. He had his lawns to mow, his errands to run. He spent the entire afternoon of one bad day gathering empty bottles and making the rounds of the stores collecting the few cents' deposit on them. "When he had collected enough money, he bought frankfurters and rolls and a small package of tea. These things he brought to his mother as another boy would have brought the first silvery p.u.s.s.ywillows of the spring. When their financial pressures eased some and there was time for play, he spent all of that time at Abram's Rock with Marianna Cruz. Their games were solemn games played without the boisterous clamor that other children made. Morlock told her the legend of Abram's Rock. She was fascinated with it and they enacted it many times. Often she would bring food to the Rock. Later in the year, when the corn ripened in the neighboring fields, they would steal a few ears. These they would roast in hot ashes. They would play their sober games until the shadows of the hemlocks lay long across the mossy flanks of Abram's Rock. It was, for Morlock, a golden summer.

They were seldom bothered by the other children. Occasionally a crowd of them would come whooping to the Rock and join in whatever game the two were playing but the games never held them long. They would stay for a time and then, like a noisy flock of starlings, they would whirl away in a group. Once one of them shouted as if it were a shocking state of affairs that Marianna was Morlock's girl. The rest of them took it up, giggling and gossiping, hoping to shame Morlock and the girl. Morlock's reaction was more of surprise than resentment or shame. He seldom considered Marianna to be a girl. She was a comrade and a friend.

The summer waned and before they were aware of it it was time for school to begin.

Morlock asked her, "What grade will you be in?" He himself would be in the sixth.

She had been unusually quiet for several days. Morlock had supposed it was because of some family situation. Now she said in a troubled voice, "Woman was out to the house to see my fa'der. I will be in the first grade." She looked straight at him, holding his eyes with hers in a way she had. "I'm afraid to go there to that school," she continued.

Morlock, who liked school with its books and its crayons and its pencils, asked in astonishment, "Why should you be afraid? You'll like it!"

She began to cry very softly. "Way I talk," she said. "Way I dress. I got no good clothes. They will laugh at me."

Morlock said loyally, "There's nothing wrong with the way you talk." He felt a rage at the thought that they might laugh at her, and he continued fiercely, "They better not. You can walk to school with me if you want to. I won't let anyone laugh at you."

Her face brightened. "Then I won't be afraid," she said with complete faith.

Morlock, the following morning, half regretted that he had invited her to walk with him to school. They would laugh, certainly, at the way she talked and the way she dressed, and he could not defend her against the whole school. And they would laugh at him for walking with her. Yet he had promised and so he waited for her.

She came early, walking quite slowly, head down, until she saw Morlock waiting for her. Then she began to walk faster, hurrying toward him. When she was abreast of him she slowed again and they walked on together. As they came nearer to the school, the sidewalk began to blossom with the back-to-school dresses of little girls and she began to hang back. Morlock, out of a sudden pity, said, "Don't be afraid, Marianna."

Now there were small boys and big boys; at the fence that bounded the schoolyard a whole cl.u.s.ter of them. When they saw Morlock and the girl they began to jeer and catcall. "Hey, Alvin--where did you get the Portagee girl friend?" And, "Hey, Portagee! Bet those are the first shoes you had on all year!"

Morlock felt a furious flush of embarra.s.sment. Then he felt Marianna's small hand creep into his own and he was ashamed of the embarra.s.sment, ashamed of the regret that he had earlier felt at having offered to let her walk with him. This was his friend of the golden summer and to be ashamed of her was worse than being a traitor. He held his head high and said aloud, "Don't pay any attention to them, Marianna. I'll take you to your teacher." And he wished that he could kill them all.

There were yet a few weeks of summer. They met after school each day at Abram's Rock, which by now was almost like a home to them. It was their refuge, their sanctuary, and they knew every nook and cranny, every weathered scar on its great gray flanks.

Chapter 8.

Gurney: Your name is Paul Martin and you are an instructor at Ludlow College, is that correct?

Martin: It is.

Gurney: What is your subject, Mr. Martin?

Martin: I hold a masters degree in chemistry.

Gurney: What is your relations.h.i.+p to the accused?

Martin: Morlock? He is a colleague. He is--was--an instructor at Ludlow.

Gurney: Not a friend?

Martin: Hardly. Morlock did make overtures. I would say that we were acquaintances.

Gurney: What form did the overtures take?

Martin: I don't know. It's hard to say exactly. He made a point of seeking me out, trying to cultivate me. He was rather a lonely man before his marriage. I felt sorry for him.

Gurney: Before that marriage did you ever spend an evening with him?

Martin: Several. We would have dinner and then perhaps go to a movie.

Gurney: I am certain that you made no excursions to Providence with Morlock.

Martin: Certainly not.

Gurney: What about after the marriage?

Martin: He asked me several times to take dinner at his home. When it would have become embarra.s.sing to refuse again, I accepted.

Gurney: And when was that?

Martin: About a month before his wife's death. In April, it would have been.

Gurney: She was present at that dinner?

Martin: Yes.

Gurney: In what condition?

Liebman: Objection.

Cameron: Sustained.

Gurney: Put it this way--in the course of the evening did she consume any alcoholic beverages?

Martin: She did.

Gurney: To the extent that she was visibly affected?

Liebman: You're just putting the same question in different words.

Cameron: I'll have to agree with defense counsel. What are you trying to demonstrate with this line of questioning, Mr. Gurney?

Gurney: I'm trying to show a motive. I want to demonstrate that the accused found himself in an intolerable situation. He fancied himself quite a gentleman; too good for the deceased. He was especially anxious to impress Mr. Martin. With her around, he couldn't make the pretense.

Cameron: I think I will let you continue, Mr. Gurney. Please be more careful in the manner in which you elicit testimony.

Gurney: Thank you, Your Honor. Mr. Martin, what was the result of Louise Morlock's drinking?

Martin: Her conduct became embarra.s.sing. I had been trying to carry on a conversation with her--out of politeness. She had very little to say. When I tried to draw her out, she became quieter--that was at first--and hardly spoke at all.

Gurney: Was the accused visibly affected by her conduct--this withdrawal, this refusal even to carry on a conversation?

Martin: Oh, yes. He seemed annoyed at first. The situation was awkward. I finally tried to steer the conversation around to something that would at least be of interest to Morlock and myself. He was, well--sullen would be the word for it. I supposed that he was embarra.s.sed about his wife's behavior.

The Commonwealth of Ma.s.sachusetts vs. Alvin Morlock. Direct testimony of Paul Martin.

On the afternoon of the Sunday he first revisited Abram's Rock, Morlock returned Dodson's car and went home to find Louise up and dressed and making motions at straightening up the house, which she sometimes did following her nights out with Anna Carofano. "Lolly," he said, "I've got to have a talk with you." She glanced at him and returned to her dusting. "I'm here," she said. "I'd like you to sit down, Lolly. This is important."

"All right. Do you want a cup of coffee?"

"No, thanks." He sat down at the kitchen table. "The Dean had a letter from the appliance company last week, asking him to make me take care of our account."

She started to speak and Morlock shook his head.

"Don't lie about it, Lolly. I've already talked to them. There hasn't been any mistake. You haven't paid the bill. Do you have any of the money put away?"

"No."

Morlock continued quietly, "We can't go on the way we're going, Lolly. I've borrowed enough money to bring us up to date. I'd better handle the money from now on. Do you mind telling me what you did with it?" When she did not immediately answer he continued, "Let it go. We can't do anything about it now, anyway. I've been thinking, Lolly. Maybe part of all this is my fault. I do bring home a lot of work and we haven't had friends in."

She was quick to seize the initiative. "Because you think I'm not good enough for them. I know all about that."

"I'm going to ask Paul Martin to dinner," he said. "I've told you about him." He had several times mentioned to Martin that he would like to have him out for dinner some evening, being careful to make the remark indefinite enough not to suggest an immediate acceptance. Now, he decided, he would ask Martin to come--the following evening, in fact. If Martin was snooty about the tenement or Lolly that was just too bad.

He asked Martin the following morning. "Paul," he said when he met Martin in the hall, "Louise and I would like to have you come to dinner tonight if you aren't busy." He was both relieved and worried when Martin, even though somewhat condescendingly, accepted.

Morlock left the college as early as he could that afternoon. He hurried home in some anxiety, fearful that Lolly might not be all right. He had come to measure her by this standard--she was all right and had not been drinking, or she was not all right. Her all-right evenings were becoming increasingly rare. She had become more and more excited over the prospect of Martin's visit, rousing from the sulking mood that she had adopted when Morlock had taken the handling of family money from her.

She actually had the house cleaned up when Morlock arrived. She had scrubbed the kitchen, where they must necessarily eat, and borrowed curtains somewhere. She greeted him gaily. "You're home early, Al. How does it look?"

He answered enthusiastically, "Fine. Lovely," feeling that she was as eager as he to make something of this fresh start-, as willing as he to contribute more than a fair share toward its success.

They had decided upon veal cutlets for the main course. There would be wine with the meal. Morlock, when he went out to buy food for the dinner, also bought a bottle of brandy--the brandy intended to impress Martin.

Martin arrived a few minutes before seven. Morlock and Louise had been waiting for him for perhaps ten minutes. She had bathed and put on a black taffeta dress that became her very well. This, Morlock thought, is marriage. The couple you saw on the covers of the household magazines, dressed up and eagerly waiting to shower hospitality on their callers. Things would be better now and it certainly was his fault, the way Lolly had acted. Why hadn't he done this before?

Martin knocked at the door; Morlock had given him explicit instructions about how to reach the tenement--apartment, he had called it--and Morlock rushed forward to open it.

"Good evening," Martin said, shrugging out of his topcoat. He glanced about him as he did so, and Morlock watched him anxiously. He had intimated to Martin that the place was laughably Bohemian. "Third floor, you know, and a smell of cooking cabbage eternally in the halls." Now he fretted over whether Martin would keep up the pretense that the tenement was truly Bohemian and not just sordid. Martin was noncommittal. "Quite a place you have here," he continued. So hard to find a decent rent," Morlock murmured.

"Lolly, this is Mr. Martin. He's the chemistry instructor at the college. Sit down, won't you, Paul, I'll mix a drink."

Lolly smiled and admitted that she had heard a great deal about Mr. Martin and that she was pleased and she would have one too, please, Al. Morlock went to the kitchen and mixed drinks, making Lolly's very weak. When he brought them in Martin was seated, talking to Lolly.

"I was surprised that Alvin married," he said. "I'd thought he was a confirmed bachelor like myself." His tone indicated that he was quite satisfied to remain single. "Did he struggle much?"