The super stopped two feet in front of him and pointed with his thumb over his shoulder.
“Is that your handiwork?” he asked. You could tell that those were his first words of the day.
“What are you talking about?”
“The swings, was it you who set them up?”
“I did.”
“What for?”
Redrick did not answer and went over to unlock the garage door. The super followed.
“I asked you why you set up the swings. Who asked you to?”
“My daughter,” he answered very calmly. He rolled back the door.
“I’m not asking you about your daughter!” He raised his voice. “That’s another question. I’m asking you who gave you permission? I mean who let you take over the park?”
Redrick turned to him and stared at the bridge of his nose, pale and covered with spidery veins. The super stepped back and spoke more softly.
“And don’t you repaint the terrace. How many times have I…”
“Don’t bother. I’m not going to move out.”
He got back in the car and started the engine. As he took the wheel, he saw how white his knuckles were. Then he leaned out the window and no longer controlling himself, said:
“But if I am forced to move, you creep, you’d better say your prayers.”
He drove into the garage, turned on the light, and closed the door. He pulled the swag from the false gas tank, fixed up the car, put the bag in an old wicker basket, put the fishing gear, still damp and covered with grass and leaves, on top, and put the fish that Burbridge had bought in a store in the, suburbs last night on top of everything. Then he checked the car one more time. Out of habit. A flattened cigarette butt had stuck to the right rear fender. Redrick pulled it away—it was Swedish. He thought about it and put it into the matchbox. There were three butts in it already.
He didn’t meet anyone on the stairs. He stopped in front of his door and it flew open before he had time to get his keys. He walked in sideways, holding the heavy basket under his arm, and immersed himself in the warmth and familiar smells of home. Guta threw her arms around his neck and froze with her face on his chest. He could feel her heart beating wildly even through his jumpsuit and heavy shirt. He didn’t rush her—he stood patiently and waited for her to calm down, even though he fully sensed for the first time just then how tired and worn out he was.
“All right,” she finally said in a low husky voice and let go of him. She turned on the light in the entry and went into the kitchen. “I’ll have the coffee ready in a minute,” she called.
“I’ve brought some fish,” he said in an artificially hearty tone. “Fry it up, won’t you, I’m starved.”
She came back, hiding her face in her loosened hair; he set the basket on the floor, helped her take out the net with the fish, and they both carried the net to the kitchen and dumped the fish into the sink.
“Go wash up,” she said. “By the time you’re ready, the fish will be done.”
“How’s Monkey?” Redrick asked, pulling off his boots.
“She was babbling all evening,” Guta replied. “I barely got her to go to bed. She keeps asking, where’s daddy, where’s daddy? She wants her daddy all the time.”
She moved swiftly and quietly in the kitchen, strong and graceful. The water was boiling in the pan on the stove and the scales were flying under her knife, and the butter was sizzling in the largest pan, and there was the exhilarating smell of fresh coffee in the air.
Redrick walked in his bare feet to the entry hall, took the basket and brought it to the storeroom. Then he looked into the bedroom. Monkey was sleeping peacefully, her crumpled blanket hanging on the floor. Her nightie had ridden up. She was warm and soft, a little animal breathing heavily. Redrick could not resist the temptation to stroke her back covered with warm golden fur, and was amazed for the thousandth time by the fur’s silkiness and length. He wanted to pick up Monkey badly, but he was afraid it would wake her up—besides, he was as dirty as hell and permeated with death and the Zone. He came back into the kitchen and sat down at the table.
“Pour me a cup of coffee. I’ll wash up later.”
A bundle of evening mail was on the table:
“Gutalin was here,” Guta said, after a slight pause. She was standing by the stove and looking at him. “He was stinking drunk, I sobered him up.”
“How about Monkey?”
“She didn’t want to let him go, of course. She started bawling. But I told her that Uncle Gutalin wasn’t feeling very well. And she told me, ‘Gutalin’s smashed again.’”
Redrick laughed and took another sip. Then he asked another question.
“What about the neighbors?”
Guta hesitated again before answering. “Like always,” she finally said. “All right, don’t tell me.”
“Ah!” she said, waving her hand in disgust. “The woman from below knocked at our door last night. Her eyes were bulging and she was practically spitting with anger. Why are we sawing in the bathroom in the middle of the night?”
“The dangerous old bitch,” Redrick said through his teeth. “Listen, maybe we should move? Buy a house somewhere out in the country, where there’s no one else, some old abandoned cottage?”
“What about Monkey?”
“God, don’t you think the two of us could make her life good?” Guta shook her head.
“She loves children. And they love her. It’s not their fault that…”
“No, it’s not their fault.”
“There’s no use talking about it!” Guta said. “Somebody called you. Didn’t leave a name. I told him you were out fishing.”
Redrick put down the mug and got up. “OK. I’ll go wash up. I’ve got lots of things to take care of.” He locked himself in the bathroom, threw his clothes in the pail, and placed the brass knuckles, the remaining nuts and bolts, and his cigarettes on the shelf. He turned himself under the boiling hot shower for a long time, rubbing his body with a rough sponge until it was bright red. He shut off the shower and sat on the edge of the tub, smoking. The pipes were gurgling and Guta was clattering dishes out in the kitchen. Then there was the smell of frying fish and Guta knocked, bringing him fresh underwear.
“Hurry it up,” she ordered. “The fish is getting cold.” She was completely back to normal—and back to being bossy. Redrick chuckled as he dressed—that is, put on his shorts and T-shirt—and went to the table.
“Now I can eat,” he said as he seated himself.
“Did you put your underwear in the pail?”
“Uh-huh,” he said with his mouth full. “Good fish.”
“Did you cover it with water?”
“No-ope. Sorry, sir, it won’t happen again, sir. Will you sit still? Forget it!” He caught her hand and tried to pull her into his lap, but she pulled away and sat across from him.
“You’re neglecting your husband,” Redrick said, his mouth full again. “Too squeamish?”
“Some husband you are now. You’re just an empty bag, not a husband. You have to be stuffed first.”
“What if I could?” Redrick asked. “Miracles do happen, you know.”
“I haven’t seen miracles like that from you before. How about a drink?”
Redrick played with his fork indecisively.
“N-no, thanks.” He looked at his watch and got up. “I’m off now. Get my dress-up outfit ready. First class. A shirt and tie.”
Enjoying the sensation of the cool floor under his clean bare feet, he went into the storeroom and barred the door. He put on a rubber apron and rubber gloves up to his elbows and started unloading the swag on the table.
