The Ivory Grin (3 page)

The room was small and bare, lit and ventilated by a single window, which was open. The source of the voice was a bed beside the window. Propped with pillows against the maple headboard, a Negro woman smiled from a sunken gray face, with great eyes like dark lanterns. Between the smiling blue lips the thread of talk unwound:

“It’s a blessing for me, he said, that my joints are frozen solid with the arthritis, because if I tried to run around like I used to, my heart would give out sure. I told him he was a Job’s comforter, what good is keeping my heart going like a watch that won’t tell time if I can’t get up and cook. He said I was one of the stiff-necked generations and I laughed right out in his face, I couldn’t help it. That young doctor’s a good friend of mine, I don’t care what he says. Are you a doctor, son?”

The great eyes shone on me, and the blue lips smiled. I hated to lie when the human element cut across my work. I lied: “We’re making a survey of radio users in southern California. I see you have a radio.”

There was a small imitation-ivory table radio between her bed and the wall.

“I certainly have.” She sounded disappointed. Her gray upper lip, faintly mustached, puckered in many vertical wrinkles.

“Is it working?”

“It certainly is working.” The question revived her spirits by giving her a subject for conversation. “I wouldn’t give house-room to a radio that wasn’t working. I listen to it morning, noon and night, just shut it off the minute before you knocked on the door. I’ll turn it on again when you go away. But don’t hurry. Come in and sit down. I like to make new friends.”

I sat in the room’s only chair, a rocker near the foot of the bed. From there I could see the side of the white bungalow next door, with an open kitchen-window towards the rear.

“What’s your name now, son?”

“Lew Archer.”

“Lew Archer.” She repeated it slowly, as if it were a short, eloquent poem. “Now that’s a pretty name, a very pretty name. My name is Jones, after my last husband. Everybody calls me Aunty. I have three married daughters and four sons in Philadelphia and Chicago. Twelve grandchildren, six great-grandchildren, more on the way. See my pictures?” Above the radio, the wall was studded with thumbtacked snapshots. “It must be relieving to you to get off your feet for a little. This survey job, does it pay much, son?”

“Not much.”

“You wear nice clothes, though, that’s a comfort to you.”

“This job is only temporary. I wanted to ask you, do your
neighbors have radios? I couldn’t get an answer out of the man next door.”

“That Toby man? He’s a surly one. They have radio
and
television.” Her sigh expressed envy and resignation. “He owns himself a half block of income property down on Hidalgo Street.”

I made a meaningless entry in my notebook. “What about the other side?”

“Not Annie Norris. I was as churchy as Annie Norris when I had the free use of my limbs but I was never as stiff-necked as Annie. Never could see the harm in a little radio music. Annie claims that it’s a contraption of the devil, and I told her she’s not moving with the times. She wouldn’t even let that boy of hers go to the moving pictures, and I told her worse things could happen to a boy than a little innocent entertainment. Worse things could and worse things did.” She fell silent. One of her gnarled hands struggled up from where it rested on the sheet that covered her knees. “Speak of the devil. Hear that?”

With a surge and lunge of her entire body, she turned her face away, towards the window. Behind the walls of the house next door, two female voices were arguing.

“She’s carrying on with her boarder again. Listen.”

One voice was a heavy contralto, easily identified with the stout black woman. I caught fragments of what she said: “You listen … out of my house … making eyes at my son … get out … my son.”

The other voice was soprano, shrill with fear and anger. “I didn’t. It’s a lie. You rented me the room for a month—”

The heavy voice broke like a wave: “Get out. Pack up and get. You can have your money back for the rest of the time. You’ll be needing it to buy liquor, Miss Champion.”

The screen door slammed again, and the boy’s voice spoke inside: “What’s going on in here? Mama, you leave Lucy alone.”

“You stay out of this. It’s none of your affair. Miss Champion is leaving.”

“You can’t throw her out like this.” The boy’s tones were high and hurt. “She’s paid up to the end of the month.”

“She’s leaving, irregardless. Alex, you go to your room. What would your father think, he heard you talking to your mother the way you’ve been talking?”

“You do what your mother tells you,” the girl said. “I wouldn’t stay here anyway, after the insinuations.”

“Insinuations!” The older woman gave the word a savage satiric twist. “These are facts I’m talking, Miss Champion, and they’re not the only facts. I wouldn’t soil my tongue with the other thing while Alex was listening—”

“What other thing?”

“You know what other thing. I didn’t rent my good clean room for any such use as you put it to last evening. You entertained a man in your room last night and don’t try to lie your way out of it.”

If Lucy made any answer, it was too low to be heard. Mrs. Norris appeared suddenly at the kitchen window. I had no time to move back out of her line of sight, but she didn’t raise her eyes. Her face was stony. She slammed the window down, and jerked the blind down after it.

Gasping and smiling, the old woman rolled back onto her pillows: “Well! It looks as if Annie’s lost her boarder. I could have told her she was borrowing trouble, renting a room to that young Lucy creature with a grown boy in the house.” She added with the candor of the very old, who have nothing but life to lose: “Shucks, if she really goes, there won’t be no more arguments to listen to.”

I got up and touched her thin flannelette shoulder. “It was nice to meet you, Aunty.”

“Same to you, son. I hope you get yourself a better job than that walking job you got. I know what it does to the feet. I cooked all my life in big houses. You take good care of your feet.…” The voice trailed me out like a cobweb spun endlessly into space.

I went back to my car and drove it forward a few yards into a position from which I could watch the Norris house. My job was a walking job and a driving job, but mainly a sitting and waiting job. It was hot under the top of my car, but I needed it for cover. I took off my coat and sat and waited. The seconds piled up slowly into minutes like rows of hot bright pennies.

At two by my dashboard clock, which was working, a yellow cab entered Mason Street from the other end. It slowed and honked in front of the Norris house, turned in the driveway behind the Ford coupé, and backed into the curb. Lucy Champion came down the driveway with a suit-box under her arm and a hat on her head. Behind her Alex Norris, fully clothed now, carried a pair of matched gray suitcases. The driver put them in the trunk and Lucy got into the back seat with a reluctant awkwardness. Alex Norris watched the cab out of sight. From the porch, his mother watched him.

I drove past them with my head averted, and followed the cab to Hidalgo Street, along Hidalgo to Main, then south on Main. The railway station lay in that direction, and I half expected Lucy to take a train. Her cab turned into the circular drive by the station, deposited her and her luggage on the platform. Lucy went into the station. I parked behind it and headed for the back door of the waiting-room. At the same moment, Lucy came out. Her
face was heavily powdered, and her hair tucked up under her hat. Without a glance at me, she walked to the taxi rank on the other side of the building and climbed into a black-and-white cab. While its driver was picking up her luggage from the platform, I turned my car.

The black-and-white cab went north on Main to the highway, then west along the highway for two blocks. It slowed and turned sharp left under a canvas sign stretched between two poles:
MOUNTVIEW MOTEL AND TRAILER COURT
. I drove by it, U-turned at the next intersection, and came back in time to see the black-and-white cab pull out with its back seat empty.

I parked short of the canvas sign and slid to the other side of the seat. The Mountview Motel and Trailer Court stood in the social badlands between the highway and the railroad tracks. It had a view of the mountains in the sense that every building in Bella City had. Through a wire-net fence to which vines clung halfheartedly, I could see twenty or thirty house-trailers lying like beached whales in the dusty court. Around and under them, children and dogs were playing. The near side of the court was half enclosed by an L-shaped building made of concrete blocks, pierced with twelve windows and twelve doors. The first door was marked Office. Lucy’s suitcases stood on its low concrete stoop.

Lucy came out, followed by a fat man in a T-shirt. He picked up her suitcases and escorted her to the seventh door, in the corner of the ell. Even at a distance, she looked rigid with strain. The fat man unlocked the door and they went inside.

I drove into the court and parked in front of the office. It was a dismal cubicle, divided by an unpainted wooden counter. A frayed canvas settee stood by the door. On the
other side of the counter there was a rolltop desk stuffed with papers, an unmade studio bed, an electric coffeemaker full of grounds, over all a sour coffee smell. A duty printed card scotch-taped to the top of the counter announced: We Reserve the Right to Choose Our Clientele.

CHAPTER
4
:
    
The fat man came back to the office
, his belly rising and falling under the T-shirt. His forearms were marked with blue tattooings like the printing on sides of beef. One on the right arm said: I Love You Ethel. His small eyes said: I love nobody.

“Any vacancies?”

“You kidding? Vacancies is what we got plenty of.” He looked around his office as if he suspected something the matter but couldn’t exactly place it. “You want a room?”

“Number six if it’s empty.”

“It ain’t.”

“How about number eight?”

“You can have eight.” He rummaged in the desk for a registration blank, which he pushed across the counter. “You on the road?”

“Uh-huh.” I signed my name illegibly, omitting my license number and home address. “Hot today.”

“You ain’t seen nothing.” His defensive tone was accentuated by an asthmatic wheeze. “It’s barely a hundred. You should of been here around the first of the month. It was darn near a hundred and ten. That’s what keeps the tourists away in droves. The room is two and a half single.”

I gave him the money and asked to use the phone.

“Long distance?” he wheezed suspiciously.

“A local call. Private, if you don’t mind.”

He produced a telephone from under the counter and ambled out, slamming the screen door behind him. I dialed the number of the Mission Hotel. Una’s voice answered immediately when the switchboard called her room:

“Who is it?”

“Archer speaking, from the Mountview Motel. Lucy Champion checked in here a few minutes ago. She was evicted by her landlady, a colored woman named Norris on Mason Street.”

“Where is this motel?”

“On the highway two blocks west of Main. She’s in room seven.”

“All right, fine,” on a rising note. “Keep a close watch on her. I’m going to pay her a visit. I want to know where she goes after I talk to her.”

She hung up. I moved into room eight by placing my overnight bag in the middle of the worn rag rug and hanging my jacket on the one wire hanger in the cardboard wardrobe. The bed was covered with a sleazy green spread that failed to conceal the economic depression in its middle. I didn’t trust the bed. I sat on a straight chair that I placed beside the front window and lit a cigarette.

The window gave me a view of Lucy’s door and window across the inner corner of the ell. The door was closed, the green roller-blind drawn down over the window. The smoke from my cigarette rose straight up through the stagnant air to the yellow plaster ceiling. A woman groaned behind the wallboard partition in the next room, number nine.

A man’s voice said: “Anything the matter?”

“Don’t talk.”

“I thought something was the matter.”

“Shut up. There’s nothing the matter.”

“I thought I hurt you.”

“Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.”

My cigarette tasted like burning grass. I butted it in the lid of a coffee can which had been left in the room as an ashtray and thought of the people who had lain alone or in pairs on the iron bed and looked at the yellow ceiling. Traces of their dirt remained in the corners, their odors clung to the walls. They had come from all over the country to look at the yellow ceiling, stir in the iron bed, finger the walls and leave their indelible marks.

I moved across the floor to the partition between my room and Lucy’s. She was sobbing. After a while she said something to herself that sounded like: “I won’t.” And after another while: “I don’t know what to do.”

People were always sobbing to themselves and saying that they didn’t know what to do. Still, it was hard to listen to. I went back to my chair by the window and watched the door, trying to imagine I didn’t know what was going on behind it.

Una appeared in front of it suddenly like a figure in a dream. A marijuana dream. She had on leopard-spotted slacks and a yellow silk shirt. Leaning towards the door like an eager fighter, she struck it two backhanded blows with her right fist.

Lucy opened the door. Her curled brown hands came up to her mouth and hooked on her lower lip. Una pushed in like a small garish battering-ram, and Lucy fell back out of my line of vision. I heard her staggering heels strike the floor. I moved to the partition.

“Sit down,” Una said briskly. “No, you sit on the bed. I’ll take the chair. Well, Lucy. What have you been doing with yourself?”

“I don’t want to talk to you.” Lucy’s voice might have been soft and pleasant if fear hadn’t been playing tricks with it.

“You don’t have to get excited.”

“I’m not getting excited. What I do is my own business. It’s no business of yours.”