The Kill-Off

stopped in front of the jewelry store, pretending like I was interested in the jewelry display, but actually looking at myself in the big panel-mirrors behind it.

I thought I looked pretty good tonight, considering all I'd been through. I honestly looked especially good in spite of everything.

I had on a white Cashmere sweater I'd bought two weeks before-I guessed it wasn't rushing the season too much to wear it. I had on a new blue flannel skirt, and extra-sheer stockings and my practically new handmade suede shoes.

I studied myself in the mirror, thinking that whatever else you could say about him, you certainly couldn't say he was stingy. Mama and I could buy just about anything we wanted to, and he'd never say a word. All he ever insisted on was that we pay cash.

Mama always kept a hundred dollars cash on hand. As far back as I could remember, she did. Whenever she or I bought anything, why, she'd tell him, and he'd give her enough to bring her back up to a hundred dollars.

Actually, she-or I should say, I-hadn't spent much until this summer. I was actually scared to death of going in a store; afraid, you know, that the clerks might be laughing at me or talking about me behind my back. And Mama was even worse than I was. We never bought anything until we just had to. When we couldn't put it off any longer, we'd just take the first thing that was showed to us and practically run out of the place.

Papa just talked awful about us. I never will forget some of the mean things he said. He said he'd rent Mama out as a scarecrow, if it wouldn't've been so hard on the crows. And he said I looked like a leaky sack of bran that was about to fall over.

Well, he certainly hasn't had any cause to talk that way since I started going with Bobbie. Not about me, anyhow. I simply couldn't look dowdy around Bobbie, so I just made myself shop like a person should. And after I'd done it a few times, I didn't mind it at all. I mean, I actually really liked it, and I really did do some shopping from then on.

Nowadays, I hardly ever go into town without buying something.

Why not, anyway? Papa has plenty of money. If he can't treat me decent, why at least he can let me look decent.

I glanced at my wristwatch, saw that it was getting close to six. I started for the pavilion, walking fast. Wondering how much money there'd be in his strongbox.

I never touched the strongbox ordinarily. I had no reason to, in my ticket-selling job, so I didn't know how much was in it. But I knew there'd be a lot. Papa didn't do any business with the banks that he didn't absolutely have to. He'd always paid 'cash on the barrelhead,' as he says, for practically everything. And when you have as many interests as Papa, that takes a lot of cash.

Of course, the dance business had fallen off quite a bit, and some of his other things weren't doing so well. But, goodness, what of it? Look at all the property he owned! Look at all the money he'd made when business was good! Papa could lose money for years, and he'd still be rich. Everyone in town said so. Maybe there wouldn't be as much in the strongbox as there used to be, but there'd still be plenty. Two or three thousand dollars, at least.

I was about a half block from the pavilion when I saw Ralph Devore come out of the rear exit, and climb up into the air-conditioner shed.

I stopped dead in my tracks. I thought, Oh, golly, how could I have forgot about him? Why does he have to be working all the time? I was actually sick for a moment, I was so disappointed. Then, I just tossed my head and kept right on going. Because it suddenly dawned on me that it didn't make a bit of difference whether Ralph was there or not. Even if he saw me, which wasn't likely, it wouldn't matter.

Ralph wouldn't think anything of my going into Papa's office. After all, I was the owner's daughter, and it just wouldn't occur to him to try to stop me or ask me what I was doing. Of course, he'd talk later when Papa missed the money, but I didn't care about that. Bobbie and I would be gone by that time, and we'd never come back.

I went through the door of the pavilion. I started across the floor, my knees just a little shaky. Ralph was pounding on something back in the air-conditioner shed-hammering on something. The noise came out through the ballroom air-vents, thud-bang, thud- bang, and I kind of walked- marched-in time to it.

My feet began to drag. That crazy pounding, it was just awful; it made me feel like I was in a funeral procession or something. And it kept right on going on, after it wasn't going on. I mean, I realized suddenly that Ralph wasn't pounding any more, and all that noise was coming from my heart.

I took a deep breath. I told myself to stop acting so silly, because there just wasn't any sense to it.

Bobbie and I would be a long way from here in another hour. Papa would know I'd taken his money-I wanted him to know it! But he wouldn't be able to catch up with us himself, and he'd never call on the police. He'd have too much pride to let anyone know that his own daughter had stolen from him.

I was at the door of his office. I opened my purse and took out my keys, fumbled through them until I found the right one.

I unlocked the door. I stepped inside, closed it behind me, and flicked on the light. And screamed.

Because Papa was there.

He was sitting at his desk, his face buried in his arms. There was a half-full bottle of whiskey in front of him.

He sat up with a start when I screamed. He jumped up, cursing, asking me what the hell was the idea, and so on. And then when I just stood staring at him, my mouth hanging open, he slowly sat down again. And stared at me.

Ralph came running across the ballroom floor. He stopped in the doorway of the office, and asked if something was wrong. Papa didn't say anything, even look at him. Ralph said, 'Oh, uh, excuse me,' and went away again.

Papa and I went on staring at each other.

He didn't need to ask why I was here. He knew. I'd've bet a million dollars that he did. He'd been scheming and planning all along, figuring out ways to get me so scared and desperate that I'd finally try this. And then, when I did try, when he'd let me get my hopes all up, thinking that I'd found a way out…

Oh, he knew all right! He'd planned it this way. What else would he be doing there if he hadn't? Why hadn't he gone on home to supper like he always did?

I backed toward the door. I thought, Oh, how I hate you! HOW I HATE YOU! I hate you so much that- that-! I hate you, hate you, hate you!

Papa nodded. 'Figured you probably did,' he said. 'Well, you got a lot of company.'

I turned and ran.

It didn't occur to me until later that I must have said what I was thinking. That I'd actually yelled it at him.

12:

PETE PAVLOV

I'd gotten the letter from Doc Ashton the week before. I didn't answer it, so that Monday he phoned me. I told him to go to hell and hung up.

Only thing to do, as I saw it. And wrong or right, a man's got to go by what he sees. He's got a chance that way. It's a lot handier for him. Any time a butt needs kicking, he knows whose it is.

I punched out a few letters on my old three-row typewriter. I carried them down to the post-office, thinking that they didn't make typewriters like they used to. Thinking that they didn't make nothing like they used to, from bread to chewing tobacco. Then, kind of snorting to myself and thinking, Well, by God, look who's talking!