spot like the one last night. If she tried anything like that again, and for all he knew she might have checked out during the day – he'd put a freeze on her that would give her pneumonia.
… There was a tired apologetic cough from the bedroom doorway.
Frowning, Dusty turned and faced his father.
TWO
Of course, the old man was sick, much, much sicker than he realized. But that still could not account for his appearance; it did not, in Dusty's opinion, excuse that appearance. He had begun to let himself go after his dismissal from the city schools; then, his wife – Dusty's foster mother – had died and he had let go completely.
He went days on end without shaving, weeks without a haircut. His soiled baggy clothes looked like they'd been slept in. He looked like a tramp – like a scarecrow out of a cornfield. And that wasn't the worst of it. The worst was what he'd let happen to himself mentally. He seemed to take pride in being absent-minded, in seeing how stupidly he could do the few things that were left for him to do.
Why, good God, Dusty thought. His father was only a little past sixty, and he was practically senile. He couldn't be trusted with the simplest task. You couldn't send him to the store after a cake of soap and have him come back with the right change.
'Well' – Dusty forced the frown from his face. 'How's it going, Dad?'
'Pretty good, Bill. Did you sleep well?'
'Not bad. As good as I could in this weather.'
Mr. Rhodes nodded absently. A streak of saliva curved down from the corner of his mouth, and he wiped at his chin with the back of his hand.
'I got another letter from the lawyers today, Bill. They think that- '
'Have we got anything to eat in the house?' Dusty interrupted. 'Anything I can make a sandwich out of?'
'I wanted to tell you, Bill. They think-'
Dusty interrupted him again. He knew what the lawyers thought, the same thing they always thought: that his father's case should be appealed to a higher court; that he, Dusty, was a sucker who could be conned indefinitely into paying their legal fees.
'Dad!' he said sharply. 'We'll talk about the lawyers another time. Right now I want to know why we don't have any food. What did you do with the money I gave you?'
'Why, I – I-' The old man's eyes were blank, childishly bewildered. 'Now, what did I-'
'Never mind,' Dusty sighed 'Skip it. But you did get something to eat yourself, didn't you? You did, didn't you Dad?'
'Why- oh, yes,' Mr. Rhodes said quickly. Too quickly. 'I've eaten very well today.'
'What, for example? You bought just enough groceries for yourself – is that what you're telling me, Dad?'
'Ye – I mean, no.' Mr. Rhodes' eyes avoided his son's. 'I ate out. It was too hot to do any cooking, so I-'
'You ate at Pete's place?'
'Yes – no. No, I didn't eat at Pete's.' His father shied away from the trap. Dusty might check at the neighborhood lunchroom. 'I went to another place, down toward town.'
Dusty studied him wearily. He refrained from asking the name of the restaurant. It was no use – at such times as this his father was like a sly child – and he just wasn't capable of it. No matter how provoked you got, you shouldn't badger your own dad.
'All right,' he said quietly, taking his billfold from his pocket. 'Here's a couple dollars. Go down to Pete's and get you a good meal. Right now, Dad, before you go to bed. Will you do that?'
'Certainly. Of Course I will, Bill.' Mr. Rhodes almost snatched the money from his hand. 'Will it be all right if – if -?'
Dusty hesitated over the unspoken question. 'Well,' he said, slowly. 'You know what we decided about that, Dad. We both agreed on it, that it just wasn't a good idea. When a man's out of work, when he's worried, it's pretty easy to…'
'But I was just going to get a beer, just sit at the bar a while and watch television.'
'I know, but-'
'But what?' There was an unaccustomed sharpness in his father's voice. 'I don't understand you, Bill. Why all this fuss over a bottle of beer? You know I've never been a heavy drinker. I just don't have any taste for the stuff. But the way you've harped on the subject lately, you'd think I-'
'I'm sorry.' Dusty clapped him on the back, urged him toward the door. 'I just get tired and worried, and I talk too much. Go on and have your beer, Dad. But get you a good meal, too.'
'But I'd like to know why-'
'No reason. Like I said, I talk too much. You run along, and I'll see you in the morning'
Mr. Rhodes left, still muttering annoyedly. Dusty remained in the house a few minutes longer, giving him time to get out of sight. The old man had gotten dangerously suspicious a moment ago. It wouldn't do to feed those suspicions further by having him think he was being followed.
Dusty fixed and drank a glass of ice water while he waited. Ice, by God, was just about all there was in the refrigerator. He smoked a cigarette, pacing back and forth across the shabby living room. At last, after a nervous glance at his wrist watch, he hurried out of the house and jumped into his car.
At a drive-in restaurant, he gulped down a hot turkey sandwich and two cups of coffee. He parked his car at the rear of the Manton, hurried through the service entrance and on into the locker room. There was a sour taste in his mouth. The food he had eaten lay heavy on his stomach. He was tired, sweaty. He felt like he had never rested, never bathed.
Stripping out of his clothes, he took another shower – cold and necessarily quick. He dried himself, standing directly beneath the ceiling fan. He put on his wine-colored, tuxedo-like uniform, and hung his street clothes in his locker. He sat down under the fan, tapping the persistent sweat from his face with his bath towel. It was ten, no nine, minutes of twelve. There was time for another smoke, time to pull himself together a little before he went up to the lobby.
He lighted a cigarette moodily, broodingly, trying to escape from the feeling of sullen despair, of hopeless frustration, which crept over him more and more of late.
There was no way out that he could see. No exit from his difficulties. His mind traveled in a circle, beginning and ending with his father. The doctor's bills, the medicines, the frittering away of money almost as fast as it could be made. Two dollars, five dollars, ten dollars, whatever you gave the old man, he got rid of. And he wasn't a damned bit hesitant about asking for more.
Dusty had considered taking a day job. But day bellboys didn't make as much money, and they had to work split watches. He'd have to be away from home practically as much as he was now… Hire a housekeeper? Well, how would that help? Thirty-five or forty bucks a week in salary, and you'd have to feed her besides. Anyway, dammit, it just wasn't necessary. None of this nonsense, which kept him drained of money, was necessary. His father was sharp enough when he chose to be. He'd proved that tonight. The trouble was that he, Dusty, had just babied and humored the old man so much that…
'Hey, Rhodes! How about it?' It was the day captain, shouting down from the top of the service steps.
Dusty shouted, 'Coming!' and left the locker room. But he ascended the long stairway unhurriedly, wrapped in thought.
His father couldn't be losing and mislaying and generally mismanaging to the extent that he appeared to be. He must be spending the money on something. But what in the world would a man his age-Suddenly, Dusty knew. The answer to the riddle was so damned obvious. Why the hell hadn't he thought of it before this?
The day bellboys swept past him on the steps. Lighting cigarettes, peeling out of their jackets and collars as they hastened toward the locker room, A few spoke or nodded to him. They got no greeting in return. He was too choked up, blind with anger.
Those lawyers, those dirty thieving shysters! That was where the money was going.
Well, he'd put a stop to that. There would be no use in jumping his father about it; he couldn't really blame
