Bascom? Well, Bascom's life was forfeit anyway, wasn't it? Having nothing to lose he could lose nothing. And his father, Mr. Rhodes- – well, he too had been a dead man already. Death had simply put an end to futility. And as for Tug Trowbridge, a mass murderer, not worth a second thought, deserving exactly what he had received. And Marcia Hillis…
Why? Why, in the name of God, had she done it? What had she hoped to gain by doing it?… He had a feeling that long, long ago, he might have understood. But, then, naturally, back there in time, there would have been nothing to understand. The situation would not have been posed then; he would have been incapable of bringing it about. Back there, so long ago, yet such a short time actually, he had been just another college student, and if he had been allowed to, go on, if he had been given the little he was entitled to without being impelled to grab for it…
He left the railroad station, and walked quickly back toward the business section. He couldn't think about Marcia Hillis – face the riddle and reproach which she represented. He couldn't stop thinking about her.
Why? Why had he been singled out for this black failure, this bottomless disappointment? Why not, for example, some of those loud-mouthed clowns, the office holders and professional patriots, who had advanced themselves by ruining the old man? Mr. Rhodes had said that time, that history, would take care of them. But they had not been taken care of yet; they were still riding high. And he, he who was basically guilty of no more than compromise; he who, instead of fighting circumstance, had tried only to profit from it-
He was no better off than the old man. Alive, yes, but robbed of any reason to live.
… He got his car off the parking lot, drove it to a nearby sales lot. It was a good car; the dealer readily admitted its quality. But it seemed that there was just no demand for this particular make and model any more. The public, for mysterious and unreasonable reasons, just didn't want 'em at any price. Of course, if Dusty wanted to get rid of it bad enough… Dusty did. He accepted five hundred dollars without argument, and caught a bus homeward.
The money would just about take care of the old man's funeral, he supposed. Maybe he could get out of paying for it, but it would be troublesome, no doubt, and he'd had enough trouble for a while. Better get the old bas – better get him buried and forget him. Get it over with the fastest and least troublesome way possible. Probably it would have looked better if he'd gone by the funeral parlor this morning – but to hell with how it looked. He didn't have to care about looks. He was through pretending, and if people wanted to make something out of it, let 'em try.
He got off the bus, started past the little lunchroom-bar which his father had used to patronize. And inside he heard the creaking of stools, sensed the unfriendly eyes staring out at him. It was the same way when he passed the neighborhood grocery store, the barber shop and filling station, the open windows and doors of the dingy houses. Bums, loafers, white trash, scum floating from one day's tide to the next. And they were giving him the cold eye!
It couldn't be because he'd been in jail, a prime suspect in a quarter-million-dollar robbery. Jail was no novelty for the habitues of this neighborhood. So it must be because of the old man – they must think that'… It was unreasonable. They hadn't the slightest grounds for thinking that he had brought about Mr. Rhodes' death. But still, obviously, they, did think that. Rather they knew that he had.
He began to walk faster. He was a little breathless when he reached the' house, and he almost ran up the steps and into the living room. Relieved, and suddenly ashamed of the feeling, he sank down into a chair. He mopped his face, leaned back wearily with his eyes closed. The room seemed to echo with the beating of his heart, faster and louder, louder and faster, running a deafening race with his breathing, and suddenly frightened, he opened his eyes again.
Now he was looking into his father's room – in at the bed. And something was… something wasn't, of course, it was only a shadow, but –
He stood up. He backed out of the room, turned toward his own bedroom. And through the half-opened door, stretched out on the bed, he saw another shadow. He closed his eyes, reopened them. It was still there. A shadow, only, only an illusion born of the dimness and his imagination. But he backed away again. He entered the kitchen, and the shades were drawn high there and the sunlight streamed in. But somehow it was worse than the other rooms. He could see too clearly here, and the seeing was worse than the imagining… The cupboards, recently rearranged so neatly. The sink, still half filled with dishwater. The shattered cup on the floor…
But mere was no place else to go. He was will-less to go elsewhere. He stood self-deserted, abandoned to a wilderness of the unbearable. For the wilderness would be everywhere now. It would always be everywhere.
Only she could have taken him out of it, filled the yawning emptiness, imparted meaning, and aroused desire. She could have done that, but only she. Pursuing her, he had climbed deeper and deeper into the pit, only to find nothing at the bottom but… but the bottom.
Blindly, he stumbled into a chair. He dropped down at the oilcloth-covered table and buried his face in his arms.
He thought, 'Jesus, I can't stand it!'
He sobbed out loud, 'C-Christ, I can't stand it! I can't stand-'
The floor creaked behind him. He stiffened, choking back a sob, too terrified to look around.
'I know…' said Marcia Hillis, 'but I'll help you, darling. We'll stand it together.'
TWENTY-TWO
They were on the lounge. His arms were around her and his face was buried against her breast, and that, to have her again, was all that mattered. He clung to her, wanting nothing more, only half-aware of what she said.
'It's all right,' he murmured, over and over. 'It doesn't matter.'
'You do understand, Dusty? It wouldn't have been any good the other way. To start off like that, with stolen money… I know what it does to people. I know what it did to my mother, and my father-'
'It's all right,' he said. 'I don't care about the money.'
'I wanted to ask you to return it. I was so afraid, for you, darling, so terribly afraid of what Tug might do. But I hadn't had time to get to know you, and I had to act quickly. And – and-'
'And you weren't quite sure, were you?' he said. 'You felt that I might have killed Bas – that I'd known your dad was going to be killed.'
'Well,' she nodded reluctantly. 'I didn't want to think that, but…'
'I don't blame you,' he said. 'You'd just about have to think that. I was the inside man on the robbery, and how could I be unless I knew that – knew everything that was going to happen? But Tug didn't tell me, Marcia. He didn't have to explain anything to me. He threatened to kill you if I didn't do what I was told. That was all I knew, all I could think about. I was afraid to ask any questions, and-'
'I know, dear.' She brushed her lips against his forehead. 'It was too late to change plans then, but I knew – I was sure – that last night before I came to the hotel.'
'Oh? How do you-'
'Your father. It was the first time we'd been alone together, you know, and' all he could talk about was you. The sacrifices you'd made, everything you'd given up for. him. How patient you were with him, how kind and generous. So… so I knew, Dusty. I was sure. If you were like that, and I •knew' that you were, then you couldn't have…'
'I- I didn't do much for him,' Dusty said. 'No more than I should have.'
He was smiling to himself, exulting. Not, of course, because of his deception of her – he was sorry that that was necessary – but because of the broad triumph, the justification, which the deception represented. He bad been right, after all. The path into the pit had led not to emptiness but fullness.
'… heart failure, Dusty? The story in the morning paper was pretty vague.'
'Heart failure induced by alcohol. That's what the police said. You see, the doctor didn't want him to know how sick he was, and as long as he'd never gone to any excesses, why…' He explained, his voice muffled against the material of her dress. 'It was my fault partly, I guess' I knew he was feeling very depressed, and if I'd just bought him what he needed instead of giving him the money-'
'Don't! You mustn't feel that way, darling.'.'Well… If I'd had any idea at all that-'
'Of course. You don't need to tell me that.' She kissed him again, murmured on soothingly, reassuringly… When you loved someone you were sometimes too good for them for their own good. She knew how that was, how
