Juice, p.7
Juice, page 7
It was still not true, not any of this. Joe Harrison was puzzled; something had gone wrong and there was a man lying here dead; but his own part in the event bewildered him. Joe Harrison saw himself now as a good man with a respect for life, and this was—was—was not like him. He blinked hard and shook his head; the policeman said, “Let’s have a whiff of your breath.”
Joe Harrison opened his mouth and exhaled.
“Christ,” the policeman said.
Joe was breathing heavily now, the tired athlete, the defeated statesman, the cashiered major, who could not understand. He saw the black lunchbox tilted against the curb.
A man trotted up the sidewalk toward them. He was a grotesque man, small, his jacket flapping, his heels clicking, the sun sparking off his spectacles. He was carrying a black bag.
Seeing him, Joe Harrison understood. He blinked again, and the air cleared: a sign said FRESH VEAL; another NEW SOLES; another DRUGS SODA. Joe remembered the neat’s foot oil. He brushed at his eyes; his hand came away wet, and he realized that his tears had been falling for some time. The signs were distinct and bold; but where were the colors?
His breath came easier. It had been done; no conjuring would undo it. But it was not right; he was not quite sure yet that he had done it.
“I—” he began. They all looked up at him, even the doctor. “Could I—” He gestured toward the drugstore. “My wife. Could I telephone?”
The policeman stared coldly. Joe noticed that the policeman was very young. You are not yet twenty-five, he said silently to him.
“Yes. Come right back,” the policeman said.
Joe nodded. He walked to the drugstore, a few steps. The pharmacist, in the doorway, made room for him. Joe stopped and frowned. “Neat’s foot oil,” he said. The words were wrong. He had not meant that.
The pharmacist stared.
“Of course,” Joe said. “Where’s the telephone?”
The pharmacist pointed. He was a middle-aged man with a mustache. Joe went into the store; the man came close behind him. He entered the telephone booth; there was no light. He opened the folding door and looked at his handful of change. No dime; no nickels. He looked at the pharmacist, who looked away.
He dropped a quarter into the slot and waited. The operator was cheerful. He gave her the number. Then he heard Helen’s voice; his body stiffened again. At that moment he realized fully why he had stopped the car, why he was in a telephone booth. “Aaaah,” he breathed. The sound was shaky. The booth was dark, and the hum of electricity ominous and final.
“Hello, hello. Who is it?” Helen repeated.
“Me,” he said. “Joe.”
“Joe!” She knew. She knew from the sound of the two words. “What’s happened?”
“I, ah, I’m in trouble,” he said.
“What trouble? Quickly. Tell me!”
“The car,” he said. “I hit a man. I … it was …” He could not force the words out.
“Joe!”
“Yes.” She knew.
“Oh, Joe! Where? Where are you?”
“Ashford.”
“Shall I come?”
“No,” Joe said, seeing the shattered skull. “No. I don’t know what they do next. Book me, or throw me in jail, or set bail, or what. But call Rhein. Tell him I’ll need a lawyer. If you haven’t heard from me in half an hour come to Ashford and ask the police. All right? And call Kelley, the insurance man.”
“Yes, all right, yes. Joe, I love you. Joe, do you know I love you?”
“I know,” he said. “I’m—it means everything. Don’t stop. I have to go now.”
“Go on. Call me. Think of me.”
“Don’t tell the kids,” he said.
“No. Oh, my darling, my poor Joe.”
“Goodbye,” he said. “Call Rhein.”
Now he did not want to leave the booth. He studied the scrawled numbers, the inevitable graffiti. “Corinne lays,” he read. There was a cautioning card: Isn’t there someone else you should call?
He walked outside. The face, the head, were covered. The policeman handed him his license and registration. “Sorry,” the policeman said, still coldly. “Too late now for a lecture. Your own fault.”
“Who is he?” Joe Harrison asked.
“Was,” the policeman said. “He was Walter Storch. S-t-o-r-c-h. He had a wife and two kids. He was a friend of mine.”
“Ah, Jesus, Jesus,” Joe Harrison said.
“Even He won’t bring him back,” the cop said curtly.
When Rhein and Davis questioned him about the evening, his memory of it, from here on, was confused and deficient. His memory of the policeman was clear: the unbending professional, contemptuous, hostile. And more than that: the agent, the arm of society; the policeman was king-for-a-day, the-man-in-charge, and in his long-restrained, now-released officiousness there was a barely apparent trace of gratitude, of thanks offered to the constabulary gods. Joe’s mind that night was a witches’ cauldron in which seething thoughts boiled (newts’ eyes, frogs’ toes, dogs’ tongues), popping to the surface when he least wanted them. He saw Walter Storch’s split skull so often that his imagination split other skulls: he saw the policeman bleeding, the magistrate’s pulpy brain; he thought of Raskolnikov; he decided that guilt, and not the Navy Colt, was the great leveler; for long moments his mind rejected the evening entirely, and he saw himself booked for a variety of uncommitted crimes: pride, voyeurism, greed, bigamy, embezzlement, fishing without a license, and finally, when he stood before the magistrate, accidie: his guilt lay not in what he had done, but in what he had left undone. Then there was the long ride through the onrushing night, and they proceeded silently, as men should toward a doom, and the magistrate’s home, from outside, radiated softly an air of ultimate mystery. They entered, and he saw that the magistrate’s furniture was covered in chintz.
On the wall was a citation; Joe was trying to read the black letter when he realized that the magistrate had spoken. He looked down. The magistrate was seated at a desk; he was lean, blue-eyed, gray-haired; desiccation had begun, but he was impersonal and businesslike. His shirt collar was too large: years had contracted the man.
“You are charged with a violation of Section five-o-one, Penal Code, namely that while driving under the influence of intoxicating liquor you drove a vehicle, and when so driving committed an act forbidden by law—that would be crossing the white line and going through the red light—and caused death to a person other than yourself—” Joe’s mind leaped again: other than yourself. Caused death to a person other than yourself. There was no statute to punish the causing of one’s own death. Could a twin murder his brother and go free claiming he was the deceased?
Joe rubbed his eyes. The magistrate had finished by informing him that he had a right to counsel. “Yes,” Joe said. “I want counsel. Only because I’m so confused … I can’t think at all.”
“Whom shall I call?” the magistrate asked.
“I don’t know. The family lawyer is a business lawyer … Wait. May I call my wife? I told her I would. She may know.”
“I let him call her from the scene of the accident,” the officer said. His name was Pearson, Joe remembered.
The magistrate nodded.
Joe called. The chintz was probably yellow, with probably blue flowers; color was still beyond his powers.
“Hello,” Helen said. “Joe?”
“Yes.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m at—” He stopped. “Wait.” To the magistrate he said, “Where exactly am I?”
“Judge Lieber’s home, on Route Thirty, outside of Los Pinos.”
He repeated the information.
“What have you done there?” Helen asked. “Rhein said you shouldn’t do anything without a lawyer. He has Davis for you.”
“Who?”
“Davis. Remember? Landauer? The little musician you were so upset about?”
“Yes.” Joe felt alarm. Why Davis? What had he done? Could they—a life for a life? “I haven’t done anything,” he said. “I told them I was too confused. I told them I wanted a lawyer.”
“Have they set bail?”
“No. Wait.” Joe turned to the magistrate. “Can you set bail? Or do I have to go right to jail?”
“I can set bail,” Lieber said crisply. “I know who you are, and this seems to be your first offense. Five thousand dollars.”
“Five thousand dollars,” Joe Harrison told his wife. “Can you come?”
“Yes. Rhein’s sent someone over. He isn’t here yet. As soon as he comes, we’ll start. Are you all right, my darling?”
“Yes. I don’t know exactly what I’m doing. I can’t seem to focus. All I know is I’ve done something bad. I feel like a little boy.”
“Wait for me. We won’t be long. Where’s the car?”
“Where’s my car?” Joe asked the officer.
“They’re bringing it along,” the young man said. “But your license is suspended. You can’t drive.”
“My wife will,” he said. To her he went on, “The car’ll be here. I can’t drive any more. I couldn’t drive anyway. I wouldn’t want to be responsible.”
“Just wait, my love,” Helen said.
“I will, I will.”
Joe hung up and faced the magistrate. “She’ll be along with a bondsman, Judge. Thank you.”
The judge nodded. “I can set a hearing for two to five days from now. I’ll make it Wednesday, day after tomorrow. Eleven A.M. in room 101 of the County Courthouse in Los Pinos. You be there with counsel. Officer Pearson, you can make that all right? And bring your witnesses?”
“Right.”
“Good. Nothing to do now until the bondsman comes. You want anything?” he asked Joe. “Coffee?”
“No. No thanks.” Joe felt wary, and was ashamed of it. “Could I ask a question?”
The judge nodded.
“How much … what’s the maximum penalty for this?”
The judge reflected. “It depends. The jury has latitude, you know. If they recommend the county jail, ninety days to a year. If they recommend the state prison, it’s one to five. That’s if you’re guilty. That’s the criminal case. Then there’s the civil case. That’s when the family sues you.”
“Five years,” Joe murmured. Sally would be sixteen, Dave fourteen.
“Then there are fines. Either or, or both. They range from two hundred to five thousand.”
Joe nodded. He glanced at Pearson. “Is anybody taking care of Mrs. Storch?”
“You worried?”
Joe reddened. “Yes,” he said. “I meant from—” Joe stopped, cautious again. You are under arrest. Anything you say may be regretted tomorrow. Wait for counsel. Davis. A big one. Anyone would think he had fathered a bastard. That was unfair to Davis; Joe withdrew the thought.
Mrs. Storch had two children. At least there was money. It was easy to be sentimental; but money would make some difference. Maybe she had not loved her husband. Joe was ashamed again. And maybe she had loved him; maybe it was an idyll; and what did it matter? They were husband and wife; he had pulverized the rock she built on. But it was not a rock; it was a man.
Joe could not follow that thought; his mind rebelled. Pearson. He would think about Pearson. Would Pearson tell the story later, making much of his own part, talking scornfully of the drunken rich? Let him who has not sinned … but that was unfair. That was license.
Now memories came, and were confused with the event: he had left Sunday school to practice with a new air rifle; he had stolen a jackknife; he had drunk under age, cheated on his income tax, pulled his rank on a Negro sergeant and the sergeant had naturally misunderstood—it was all ambiguous anyway, something about ammunition; it was not there when they needed it, and he was not calling anybody lazy, but he had never cleared that up later; he had never been able to find the man, and one day he had thought, maybe he’s dead, and was depressed to find that he hoped so. Against this there was a prisoner he had dragged in when he might have left him—should have left him to die; he had almost died himself, losing blood as he crawled in, but they had both lived, and now the man—a private, then about sixteen—would be running a souvenir shop in the Ginza, or a fishing boat: he might have been one of the tuna-boat men, the fallout men. Or he might have been hit by a trolley, like—like—
Like Storch, of course. It came back to Storch. There was only one sort of remorse, but it came in different sizes, and this was the large. The family size. One wife, two children. How old were the children?
“How old are Storch’s children?” he asked.
Pearson said, “Five and two. Both boys.”
Five and two. When Dave was five he had had scarlet fever, and Joe remembered: fear of death, fear of deafness, blindness, debility; and nothing had happened. He had recovered. You play the black, and the black comes up. It had been a long streak. Now it was broken. Now the red was up; now they were all up against him: it was rouge, impair, et manque. It was the only wheel in town, the only life he had. He wondered what would become of his own wife, his own children.
Helen came. She burst in, found him, and clung to him. The bondsman discussed the matter with the judge. The bondsman was hushed and dignified; he might have doubled as undertaker.
Helen stroked Joe’s face and was silent. When the bondsman had finished, Joe thanked the judge. He turned to Pearson. “I’ll see Mrs. Storch,” he said. “But not now. I can’t. She—I—I can’t.”
“You want me to tell her you’re coming?”
“Only if you think she could stand it. Wait. Tell her tomorrow.”
Pearson nodded.
Joe and Helen walked out. His arm was around her waist; his knees were still weak.
She drove; he sat in his own corner, huddled, feeling old and small, trying to tell her. “It’s like being doped. I know something’s happened, I can even name it. I can say it: I killed a man. But it’s like so many things—the first cigarette, the first woman, the first baby: there are forms; you ought to feel a certain way because it seems to be the way most people feel, so you delude yourself; but you know all along that the cigarette made you dizzy, and you don’t love the woman, and the baby is a stranger.”
“Don’t talk if you don’t want to,” she said.
“I do want to. I never wanted to as much as I do now. Then you go around feeling different; other people react but you don’t. But then later, much later sometimes, you realize that they didn’t either, at least not the way legend said they would; but they were ashamed to admit it, so they kept the legend alive. So now I know what I’ve done and I ought to be on my knees and crying. You know what Jews do when somebody dies? Somebody in the family? They rip their clothes. I like that. You take hold of your lapel and you pull, you tear, and you’ve torn the universe apart, you’ve ripped God limb from limb, you’ve protested everybody’s troubles everywhere; the physical act, you do something—and I can’t feel it that way. Not yet. I can’t even believe it happened. I keep thinking, this afternoon I was at my desk, I was with people, up to a given moment my life was mine; and now it’s not mine. But I still can’t feel it. I’m going home now to you and Dave and Sally, and that’s wrong too, the pattern isn’t being followed. I should be in jail, or they should be throwing stones at me. But I don’t want that either, because I can’t feel it yet. Do you mind my talking? You have tears in your eyes. I haven’t. I was thinking before about that prisoner I brought in, the one I told you about; I could have left him to die. But it doesn’t balance. There is no balance. Immanent justice is a fraud. Immanent justice is the—what is it?—the Manichaean heresy. That good and evil balance. We had a bad winter, so we’ll have a warm summer. I heard a priest say that once. No. It doesn’t work. I remember I wanted to tell him it was heresy; he was in danger of excommunication, because he had made a remark on the weather. I’m excommunicated, from myself. I’ll wake up tomorrow and I’ll be in hell. Or maybe I won’t. The morning after the first girl: do I look different? And I didn’t even feel different. I’m running off at the mouth. Why don’t you stop me?”
“Because I love you,” she said. The tears were on her cheeks; one had reached the corner of her lip.
“That’s good,” he said.
Then they were home. Dogs clamored a fanfare. It was ten-thirty; Joe went upstairs to see the children, and looked at them without seeing them, and came downstairs, and took off his jacket and tie and sat numbly in a chair. Helen brought him a chicken sandwich and a whisky-and-water; the cats gathered and glared at him. Death was not in the room with them; death was still a stranger, inhabiting the world of the others; death was a word, a necessary noun, of value to newspapermen, novelists, and theologians. Death was alien to this hilltop, and Joe Harrison ate his chicken sandwich, observed his desirable wife, imbibed his soothing drink.
“What did Rhein say?” he asked.
“At first he didn’t say anything,” Helen said. “I had to ask him if he was still there. Then he said, ‘Yes, yes; this is incredible. Impossible. I’ll call that Davis.’ So I asked who Davis was, and he told me, and I remembered. I told him to go ahead; that I’d try to take care of tonight, and we’d call him in the morning. ‘You’ll need a bond,’ he said. I could feel him taking charge. I said yes, and I asked him what I could put up for bail—cash, a check, securities, what. Then he said he’d send a bondsman. That was all.”
“I’m surprised he didn’t laugh,” Joe said. “We had an argument this afternoon. It seems like a couple of months ago.”
“He wouldn’t have laughed. He was panicky at first, in his own puzzled way.”
“Sure he was.” Joe sighed, and Helen’s eyes softened again; the sigh had been almost a groan.
“Can you sleep, do you think?”
“I’m afraid so,” he said. “I’m too calm. There’s something wrong. Any minute now I may have hysterics.”
“No.” She went to him. “Come with me. Upstairs. Right now. We have pills.”
“Pills,” Joe said. “Poppy and mandragora. All right. In the midst of death—”
