bed, built of
green-painted iron with brass decorations in the shape of seashells. Martin
tried to bounce on it, and complained, ‘Jesus, this mattress is as hard as a
rock.’
‘Hard beds are
good for your posture,’ said Charlie. ‘And don’t profane.’
‘Do we really
have to stay here?’
‘Maybe you can answer
that,’ Charlie replied, taking off his coat and hanging it up inside the
cavernous depths of the wardrobe. There were five wire hangers in there, and a
dried up clove and orange pomander that looked like a shrunken head.
‘I don’t know
what you mean,’ said Martin. He went over to the opposite side of the room and
stuck his head inside the carved wooden fireplace. ‘Halloo – halloo – any
skeletons up there?’
Charlie watched
him in the wardrobe mirror. ‘You still haven’t told me the truth about what
happened at the Iron Kettle.’ He tried not to sound too petulant.
‘Dad,’ said
Martin. ‘Nothing happened.’
Martin turned
away from the fireplace, and as he did so Charlie saw in the mirror that his
face had peculiarly altered. It seemed to have stretched out, so that it was
broad and distorted, and his eyes had the same blind look as the eyes of a dead
fox he had once found lying by the road.
Charlie jerked
in shock, and turned around, but Martin appeared quite normal when he
confronted him face-to-face. He looked back at the mirror. It must have been
the mottling, and the dirt. He remembered how old he had looked himself, in the
mens room mirror at the Iron Kettle.
‘Do you want to
go down to the car and get the bag?’ Charlie asked Martin.
Martin said,
‘Okay,’ but on the way out of the door he hesitated. ‘Do you really not believe
me?’ he asked.
Charlie said,
‘I believe you.’
‘You’re not
just saying that to stop us from having an argument?’
Charlie
unfastened his cufflinks. ‘Since when did boys talk to their fathers like
that?’
‘You said we
were supposed to be friends.’
‘Sure,’ said
Charlie, and felt a wave of guilt. He went over to Martin, and laid his hand on
his shoulder, and said, ‘I’ve been travelling around on my own for too darn
long, that’s my trouble. Too much talking to myself in
hotel mirrors. I guess it’s made me a little nutty.’
‘You can
believe me,’ Martin told him; although Charlie detected a strange hoarseness in
his voice that didn’t sound like Martin at all. ‘You can believe me.’ And it
wasn’t so much of an affirmation as a command. It wasn’t really, You can believe me. It was more like, You must believe me.
He sat on the
side of the bed and waited for Martin to return with the suitcase. He thought
about a quiet foggy afternoon in Milwaukee, parking his car and walking up the
concrete pathway to a small suburban duplex. Six or seven children had been
playing ball at the end of the street, and their cries had sounded just like
the cries of seagulls. He remembered pushing the bell, and then the front door
opening. And there she was, her brown hair tangled, staring at him in complete
surprise. ‘You came,’ she had whispered. ‘I never thought you would.’
Martin returned
with their zip-up overnight bag. He laid it down on the bed, and said to
Charlie,
‘Are you okay?
You look kind of logic.’
‘I’m okay.
Tired, I guess, like you.’
‘I’m not
tired.’
‘Well, then,
let’s freshen ourselves up, and get on down to Billy’s Beer & Bite.’
Martin looked
around. ‘There’s no television here. What are we going to do all evening?’
‘You know how
to play cards, don’t you? Let’s see how much of your allowance I can win back.’
Martin said,
‘Mega-thrill. If you really want it back that bad, I’ll give it to you.’
Charlie couldn’t even smile. He wondered what he was going to say to the boy
next – let alone how he was going to find something to talk about for ten more
days. His tiredness was mostly caused by the strain of keeping up a
long-running conversation. He
green-painted iron with brass decorations in the shape of seashells. Martin
tried to bounce on it, and complained, ‘Jesus, this mattress is as hard as a
rock.’
‘Hard beds are
good for your posture,’ said Charlie. ‘And don’t profane.’
‘Do we really
have to stay here?’
‘Maybe you can answer
that,’ Charlie replied, taking off his coat and hanging it up inside the
cavernous depths of the wardrobe. There were five wire hangers in there, and a
dried up clove and orange pomander that looked like a shrunken head.
‘I don’t know
what you mean,’ said Martin. He went over to the opposite side of the room and
stuck his head inside the carved wooden fireplace. ‘Halloo – halloo – any
skeletons up there?’
Charlie watched
him in the wardrobe mirror. ‘You still haven’t told me the truth about what
happened at the Iron Kettle.’ He tried not to sound too petulant.
‘Dad,’ said
Martin. ‘Nothing happened.’
Martin turned
away from the fireplace, and as he did so Charlie saw in the mirror that his
face had peculiarly altered. It seemed to have stretched out, so that it was
broad and distorted, and his eyes had the same blind look as the eyes of a dead
fox he had once found lying by the road.
Charlie jerked
in shock, and turned around, but Martin appeared quite normal when he
confronted him face-to-face. He looked back at the mirror. It must have been
the mottling, and the dirt. He remembered how old he had looked himself, in the
mens room mirror at the Iron Kettle.
‘Do you want to
go down to the car and get the bag?’ Charlie asked Martin.
Martin said,
‘Okay,’ but on the way out of the door he hesitated. ‘Do you really not believe
me?’ he asked.
Charlie said,
‘I believe you.’
‘You’re not
just saying that to stop us from having an argument?’
Charlie
unfastened his cufflinks. ‘Since when did boys talk to their fathers like
that?’
‘You said we
were supposed to be friends.’
‘Sure,’ said
Charlie, and felt a wave of guilt. He went over to Martin, and laid his hand on
his shoulder, and said, ‘I’ve been travelling around on my own for too darn
long, that’s my trouble. Too much talking to myself in
hotel mirrors. I guess it’s made me a little nutty.’
‘You can
believe me,’ Martin told him; although Charlie detected a strange hoarseness in
his voice that didn’t sound like Martin at all. ‘You can believe me.’ And it
wasn’t so much of an affirmation as a command. It wasn’t really, You can believe me. It was more like, You must believe me.
He sat on the
side of the bed and waited for Martin to return with the suitcase. He thought
about a quiet foggy afternoon in Milwaukee, parking his car and walking up the
concrete pathway to a small suburban duplex. Six or seven children had been
playing ball at the end of the street, and their cries had sounded just like
the cries of seagulls. He remembered pushing the bell, and then the front door
opening. And there she was, her brown hair tangled, staring at him in complete
surprise. ‘You came,’ she had whispered. ‘I never thought you would.’
Martin returned
with their zip-up overnight bag. He laid it down on the bed, and said to
Charlie,
‘Are you okay?
You look kind of logic.’
‘I’m okay.
Tired, I guess, like you.’
‘I’m not
tired.’
‘Well, then,
let’s freshen ourselves up, and get on down to Billy’s Beer & Bite.’
Martin looked
around. ‘There’s no television here. What are we going to do all evening?’
‘You know how
to play cards, don’t you? Let’s see how much of your allowance I can win back.’
Martin said,
‘Mega-thrill. If you really want it back that bad, I’ll give it to you.’
Charlie couldn’t even smile. He wondered what he was going to say to the boy
next – let alone how he was going to find something to talk about for ten more
days. His tiredness was mostly caused by the strain of keeping up a
long-running conversation. He
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