at 'em. They took me into court, and I fought 'em to a standstill. If they'd just left me alone, stopped to consider that they didn't have no monopoly on wanting things nice-but they just wouldn't do that. They tried to make me do something. No one makes me do anything.
The house has never been painted. The yard has never been cleaned up. It's littered with odds and ends of lumber, sawhorses, left- over brick and so on. There's a couple of old wheelbarrows, almost rusted and rotted to bits, and a big mixing trough, caked with cement. There's-
But I already said it.
It looks like hell. It ain't ever going to look any other way-at least, it ain't going to look any better- as long as I'm alive.
It was a couple of minutes after twelve when I went in. So lunch was already on the table, and Myra and my wife, Gretchen, were standing by their chairs waiting for me.
I said hello. They mumbled and ducked their heads. I said, well, let's sit; and we all sat down.
I filled their plates and mine. I took a couple bites-it was beef and potato dumplings-and then I mentioned the matter of Doc Ashton.
'Dug up a big building job for me over in Atlantic Center,' I said. 'How'd you feel about us all going there to live for four or five months?'
Gretchen didn't look up, but I saw her eyes slant toward Myra. A kind of red flush spread over Myra's face, and her hand shook as she raised her fork.
Half way to her mouth, the fork slipped out of her fingers, landed with a clatter on her plate. She and Gretchen jumped. I laughed.
'Don't worry,' I said. 'We ain't going. I never had no notion of going. Just thought I'd tell you about it.'
I took a big bite of grub, staring at them while I chewed it. Myra's face got redder and redder. And then she jumped up suddenly, and ran out of the room.
I laughed. I didn't feel much like it, but I did. Gretchen looked up at last.
'Why don't you leave her alone?' she said, not mumbling or whining like she usually does. 'Ain't you done enough, taking all the spirit out of her? Beatin' her down until she goes around like a whipped dog? Do you have to go on and on, seeing how miserable-'
'Huh-uh,' I said. 'That's something I ain't going to do. I sure ain't going on and on.'
'What-' She hesitated. 'What do you mean by that?'
I shrugged. After a moment or so, she turned and left, headed up the stairs toward Myra's room.
I finished eating, wiping my plate clean with a piece of bread. Afterwards, I dug my teeth a little with a toothpick, and after that I took a big chaw of tobacco. I looked at my watch, then-saw that it was two minutes to one o'clock. I went on looking until the hands pointed to one sharp. Then, I got my hat off the hallrack and started back toward town.
I did everything just like always, you know. Seemed like I hadn't ought to, but I'd never had but one way of doing things, and I stuck to it now. Right or wrong, it was my way. And to me, it seemed right.
Take the spirit out of 'em? Why, hell, I tried to put spirit into 'em! I gave 'em something to be proud of-something to hold their heads high about. I built something out of nothing, just my head and my two bare hands. And I never bent my back to no man while I was doing it. I never let no one take the spirit out of me. And believe me, there was plenty of them that tried. Why, those two-Gretchen and Myra-if they'd taken just half of what I took-
I got back to my office. I finished my chaw, and took a big drink of whiskey. And I kind of laughed to myself and thought, Well, hell. What you got to show for it all, Pieter Pavlovski? A wife? Gretchen's a
I took another big drink. I tried to laugh again, because it was a hell of a joke on me, you know. But I just wasn't up to laughing. Not when it was about losing this pavilion and the hotels and the restaurants and the cottages and- and everything I had. All the things that took the place of what I didn't have.
I couldn't hardly think about it, let alone laugh.
I took the gun out of my desk. I checked it over, and put it back in the drawer again.
I thought, her fault, his fault, theirs, mine, the whole goddamned world's-what the hell's the difference? It's a bad job. It's got your name on it. So there's just one thing to do about it.
It was about nine-thirty when Bobbie Ashton showed up at my office. I'd been drinking quite a bit, and it gave me a pretty bad jar when I looked up and saw him in the doorway. I didn't cuss him out, though-just grunted a 'How are you, Bobbie?' and he smiled and sat down.
I said I thought him and Myra were out on a date tonight.
'We were,' he nodded. 'I mean, we still are. I just drove by to see you for a minute.'
'Yeah?' I said. 'Wasn't going to ask me if it was all right for you to go with her, was you?'
'No,' he said. 'I was going to ask if-had you heard that Mrs. Devore was dead?'
'Well, yeah.' I sat up a little in my chair. 'Ralph called and told me. What about it, anyway?'
'Perhaps nothing,' he said. 'On the other hand…'
He took a long white envelope out of his pocket, and laid it on my desk. He stood up again, smiling a cool, funny little smile.
'I want you to read that,' he said. 'If it becomes necessary-that is, to protect an innocent person- and you may interpret the word liberally-I want you to use it.'
'Use it? What the hell is it?' I said. 'Why not use it yourself?'
His smile widened. He shook his head gently. And then, before I could say anything more, he was gone.
I opened the envelope, and began to read.
It was a confession, written in his own handwriting, to the murder of Luane Devore. It told how he'd figured out that Ralph must have had a pile of money saved, and how he needed a pile himself. And it went on to say just how the murder had come about.
He'd had a handkerchief tied over his face. He'd kept quiet-not saying anything, I mean-so she couldn't recognize his voice. He'd slipped upstairs, not intending to really hurt her; just to give her a shove or maybe a sock, so's he could grab the money. And it wasn't his intention to steal it outright. He was going to send it back anonymously as soon as he could. But-well, everything went wrong, and nothing worked out like he'd planned.
Luane was waiting for him at the head of the stairs. She piled into him, and he tried to fight her off. And the next thing he knew, she was lying at the foot of the stairs, dead.
He forgot all about the money, and beat it. He was too scared to do anything else…
I finished reading the confession. I glanced back over it again, kind of marveling over it-wondering how the thing could sound so true unless it was. There was just one hole in it that I could see. That part about him being scared. If it was possible to scare that kid, I didn't know how the hell it would be.
I took another drink. I struck a match to the confession, and tossed it into the spittoon. Because nothing had changed. Killing Luane was one crime he'd never be punished for. And probably he knew it, too.
That was why he'd written the confession-probably. He knew he was going to die anyway, so the confession couldn't hurt him and it might help someone else a lot.
I got my gun out, and slid it into my hip pocket. I turned off the lights and went out to my car.
