The Kill-off Part 5

Why couldn't my own dear father and mother, those encephalitic cretans, those gutless Jukesters, those lubricious lusus naturae-why couldn't they have had Myra inflicted upon them? Why should Pete have to suffer such a drab, spiritless wretch as she? Why couldn't they have had her, and why couldn't he have had- Myra. A feeling of fury came over me every time I looked at her. I'd had some plans for her-vague but decidedly unpleasant-long before she came to the office that day a couple of months ago.

Father was away on some calls. I glanced at the notes on her file card.

This was her second trip. She was having menstrual difficulties-something that a good kick in the stomach or a dose of salts would have jarred her out of. But father, that wise and philanthropic Aesculapian, had set her up for a series of hormone shots.

She said she was in a hurry, so I prepared to administer the medication.

Yes, I do that: take care of routine patients. Rather, I did do it, until father became wary. I know a h.e.l.l a lot more about medicine than he does. A h.e.l.l of a lot more about everything than he does. In this case, for example, I knew that what Myra needed-deserved-was not hormone.

I gave her a hypodermic. She "flashed"-to use the slang expression; barely made it to the sink before she started vomiting. I told her it was perfectly all right, and gave her another shot.

Well, someone like that, someone with only part of a character, is made for the stuff. The stuff is made for them. She was hooked in less than a week. She doesn't go to father any more, but she does come to me.

I "treat" her now. I give her what she needs-and deserves. When I am ready to. And after certain ceremonies.

Ten-thirty came. Not more than five minutes later, which was as fast as she could make it, she was running toward the car. Begging before she had the door open.

I told her to shut up. I said that if she said one more word until I gave her permission, she would get nothing.

I had her well trained. She subsided, mouth twisting, gulping down the whimpers that rose in her throat.

I drove to a place about six miles up the beach-Happy Hollow, it is called, for reasons which you may guess. I suppose there is some such place in every community, dubbed with the same sly euphemism or a similar one.

It-this place-was not a hollow; not wholly, at least. Most of its area was hill, wooded and brushy, marked with innumerable trails and side-trails which terminated in tiremarked, beach-like patches of sand.

I stopped at one of these patches. The only tire-marks were those of my own car.

I made her take her clothes off. I grabbed her. I shook her and slapped her and pinched her. I called her every name I could think of.

She didn't speak or cry out. But suddenly I stopped short, and gave her the shot. I was tired. There seemed no point in going on. Action and words, words and action- leading to nothing, arriving nowhere. It wasn't enough. There can be no real satisfaction without an objective.

Myra lay back in the seat, breathing in long deep breaths, eyes half shut. She didn't have a bad shape. In fact, without clothes on-she simply couldn't wear clothes-she shaped up quite beautifully. But only aesthetically, as far as I was concerned. I felt no desire for her.

I wanted to. My mind shrieked that I should. But the flesh could not hear it.

She dozed. I may have dozed myself, or perhaps I merely became lost in thought. At any rate, I snapped back to awareness suddenly, aroused by the dull lacing of light through the trees, the throb of a familiar motor.

Myra sat up abruptly. Stared at me, eyes wide with fright. I told her to sit still and be quiet. Just do what I told her to, and she'd be all right.

I listened to the motor, following the progress of the car. It stopped, with a final purring throb-throb, and I knew exactly where it had stopped.

I hesitated. I opened the door of the car.

"B-Bobbie . . ." A frightened whisper from Myra. "Where you going? I'm afraid to stay-"

I told her to shut up; I'd only be gone for a few minutes.

"B-but why? What're you going to-?"

"Nothing. I don't know. I mean-h.e.l.l, just shut up!" I said.

I went down the trail a few yards. I branched off into another, and then another. I came to the end of it-near the end of it, and hunkered down in the shadows of the trees.

They weren't more than twenty feet away, Ralph Devore and that what's-her-name-the girl with the orchestra. I could see them clearly in the filtered moonlight. I could hear every word they said, every sound. And the way it looked and sounded . . .

I could hardly believe it, particularly of a guy like Ralph. Because when Ralph stepped out with 'em, it was for just one thing and he lost no time about getting it. Yet now with this girl-and, no, she certainly didn't hate him. She obviously felt the same way about him that he did her, and that way- I didn't know what it was for a moment. Then, when I finally knew-remembered-realized-I refused to admit it. I grinned to myself, silently jeering them, jeering myself. Ralph was really making time, I thought. Here it was only the sixth week of the season, he'd only known this babe six weeks, and they were cutting up like a couple of newlyweds. Newlyweds, sans the s.e.x angle. Which, of course, they'd soon be getting around to.

Maybe-I thought-I ought to do the silly jerk a favor. Go up to his house some night and b.u.mp off Luane. It could be made to look like an accident. And believe me, it would need to look d.a.m.ned little like one to leave Ralph in the clear. Father was the coroner, the county medical officer. As for the county attorney, Henry Clay Williams . . . I shook my head, choking back a laugh. You had to hand it to that G.o.dd.a.m.ned Luane. She had a positively fiendish talent for tossing the knife, for plunging it into exactly the right spot to send the c.r.a.p flying. Henry Clay Williams was a bachelor. Henry Clay Williams lived with his maiden sister. And Henry Clay Williams' sister had an abdominal tumor . . . which created a bulge normally created by a different kind of growth.

At any rate, and unless the job was done in front of witnesses, it would be ridiculously easy to get away with killing Luane. Just make it look like an accident, enough like one to give Brother Williams an out, and- I leaned forward, straining to hear them, Ralph and the girl, for they were clinging even closer to each other than they had been, and their voices were consequently m.u.f.fled: "Don't you worry one bit, honey"-her. "I don't know how, but-but, gosh, there's got to be some way! I just love you so much, and you're so wonderful and-"

"Not wonderful 'nough for you"-him. Old love-'emand-scram Ralph, for G.o.d's sake! Why, he sounded practically articulate. "Ain't it funny, sweetheart? Here I am an old man-"

"You are not! You're the sweetest, darlingest, kindest, handsomest . . ."

"Anyways, I mean I lived all these years, and I reckon I never knew there was such a thing. Like love I mean. I guess I . . ."

I found that I was smiling. I scrubbed it away with my fist, scrubbed my eyes with my fist. But it kept coming back. That word, the one he'd spoken, the one I'd been ducking-it kept coming back. And I knew that there was no other word for what this was.

He wasn't going to pitch it to her. She wasn't going to hit him up for dough. They were in love-ah, simply, simply in love! Only-only!-in love. And, ah, the sweetness of it, the almost unbearable beauty and wonderment of it.

To be loved like that! More important, to love like that!

I smiled upon them, at them. Smiled like a loving G.o.d, happy in their happiness. Probably, I thought, I should kill them now. It would be such a wonderful way-time-to die.

I glanced around absently. I ran a hand back under the bushes, searching for a suitable club or rock. I could find none-nothing that would do the job with the instantaneousness necessary, nothing that was sufficiently st.u.r.dy or heavy.

I did locate a pointed, dagger-like stick, and I considered it for a moment. But a very little mental calculation established that it would never do. It wasn't long enough. It would never pa.s.s through that barrel-chest of Ralph's and go on into her bosom. And if I did not get them both at the same time, if I left one to live without the other-!

I almost wept at the thought.

A strange warmth spread over me. Spread down from my head and up from my feet. It increased, intensified, and I did not know what it was. How could I, never having experienced it before? And then at last I knew, and I knew what had brought it about.

I straightened up. I backed down the trail quietly, and then I turned and strode toward my car excitedly, my mind racing.

There could be nothing now, of course. Dope inhibits the s.e.xual impulses, so she would have to be tapered off first. But that should be relatively easy; she should unhook almost as easily as she had been hooked. If I could just get the stuff to work with-and I would get it, by G.o.d! I'd kill that stupid son-of-a-b.i.t.c.h, my father, if he gave me any trouble . . .

I cut off the thought. Somehow the thought of parricide, entirely justifiable though it was, interfered with the other.

I would get what I needed in some way. That was all that mattered. And meanwhile I could be preparing her, laying the necessary groundwork. And meanwhile I knew.

I KNEW!.

I reached the car. I climbed in, smiling.

She had her coat draped over her, but she was still undressed. I told her, lovingly, to get dressed. Lovingly, with tender pats and caresses, I started to help her.

"D-don't . . . !" She shivered. "What d-do you want?"

"Nothing," I said. "Only what you want, darling. Whatever you want, that's what I want."

She stared at me like a snake-charmed bird. Her teeth chattered. I took her in my arms, gently pressed my mouth against hers. I smiled softly, dreamily, stroking her hair.

"That's all I want, honey," I said. "Now, you tell me what you want."

"I w-want to go home. P-please, Bobbie. Just-"

"Look," I said. "I love you. I'd do anything in the world for you. I-"

I kissed her. I crushed her body against mine. And her lips were stiff and lifeless, and her body was like ice. And the glow was leaving me. The life and the resurrection were leaving me.

"D-don't," I said. "I mean, please. I only want to love you, only to love you and have you love me. That's all. Only sweetness and tenderness and-"

Suddenly I dug my fingers into her arms. I shook her until her silly stupid head almost flopped off.

I told her she'd better do what I said or I'd kill her.

"I'll do it, by G.o.d!" I slapped her in the face. "I'll beat your G.o.dd.a.m.ned head off! You be nice to me, you moronic b.i.t.c.h! Be sweet, you s.l.u.t! Y-you be gentle and tender and loving-you love me, d.a.m.n YOU, YOU LOVE ME! Or I'll . . . I'll . . ."

5: DR. JAMES ASHTON.

It may ring false when I say SO, but I did love her. Back in the beginning and for several years afterward. It became impossible later on, will it as I would and despite anything I could do. For we could share nothing but a bed, and that less and less frequently. We could not share the most important thing we had. It was impossible-you see that, do you not? So the love went away.

But once long ago . . .

She was twenty-two or -three when she came to me. She was practically illiterate-a shabby, life-beaten slumdweller. There was a great deal of race prejudice in that state-there is still, unfortunately, so much everywhere- and Negroes got little if any schooling; they had no place to live but slums.

I hired her as my housekeeper. I paid her twice the pittance, the prevailing and starvation wage for Negro houseworkers. I gave her decent quarters, a clean attic room with a lavatory, there in my own house.

She was thin, undernourished. I saw to it that she got plenty of good wholesome food. She needed medical attention. I gave it to her-taking time from paying patients to do so.

I shall never forget the day I examined her. I had suspected the beauty of her body, even in the shabby ill-fitting clothes I had first seen her in. But the revelation of it was almost more than the eyes could bear. Of all the nude women I had seen-professionally, of course-I had seen none to compare with her. She was like a statue, sculpted of ivory by one of the great masters. Even frail and halfstarved, she- But I digress.

She was very grateful for all I had done for her. Overflowing with grat.i.tude. Her eyes followed me wherever I went, and in them there was that burning worship you see in a dog's eyes. I think that if I had ordered her to take poison she would have done so instantly.

I did not want her to feel that way. At least, I made it very clear to her that she owed me nothing. I had done no more than was decent, I explained. No more than one decent person should do for another-circ.u.mstances permitting. All I wanted of her, I said, was that she be happy and well, as such a fine young woman should be.

She would not have it so. I wanted-was more than willing to, at any rate-but not she. There was an immutable quality about her grat.i.tude. Wherever I was, there was it: quietly omnipotent, pa.s.sively resistant, a constant proffering. Impossible to dispose of; beyond, at least, my powers.

I did not wish to hurt her feelings. I could see no real harm in accepting what she was so anxious to give. It was all she had to give. And the gift of one's all is not lightly rejected.

Finally, around the middle of her second month of service with me, I accepted it.

There was no love in it that first time. None on my side, that is. It was merely a matter of saving her pride, and, of course-to a degree, at least-physical gratification. But after that, very quickly after that, the love came.

And it was only natural, I suppose, that it should.

I came from a very poor family; migrant sharecroppers. My parents had twelve children-three stillborn, five who died in early childhood. The largest house we ever lived in was two rooms. I was six or seven years old before I tasted cow's milk, or knew that there was such a thing as red meat. I was almost a grown man before I owned a complete set of clothes.

If it had not been for a plantation overseer's taking an interest in me, if he had not induced my father to let me remain with his family when my own moved on, I should probably have wound up like the rest of the brood. Like my living brothers and sisters . . . if they are living. Hoehands. Cotton-pickers. White trash.

Or, no, I do myself an injustice. I could never have been like them. I would have found some way to push myself up, overseer or no (and life with him, believe you me, was no bed of roses).

Through grade school, high school, college and medical school-in all that time, I cannot remember having a complete day of rest.

I worked my way every step of the way. I did nothing but work and study. I had no time for recreation, for girls. When I did have the time, when I was at last practicing and reasonably free from financial worry, I had no, well, knack with them. I was ill at ease around girls. I was incapable of the flippery-dippery and chitchat which they seemed to expect. I learned that one young lady I liked-and who, I thought, reciprocated my feeling-had referred to me as a "terrible stick."

So, there you have it. Hattie loved me. A woman more beautiful than any I had ever seen loved me. And I could be with her in the most intimate way-talk to her of the most intimate things (although she could not always answer intelligently)-and feel not a whit of awkwardness.

I fell in love with her deeply. It was inevitable that I should.

I was, of course, quite alarmed when I learned that she was pregnant. Alarmed and not a little angry. For she had failed to take the precautions I had prescribed and entrusted her to take. As I saw it, there was nothing for it but an abortion, even though she was three months along. But much to my chagrin, for she had always done as I wanted before, Hattie refused.

She was virtually tigerish in her refusal, threatening me with what she would do if I attempted to take the foetus from her. Then as I became firm-considerably shocked by her conduct-she turned to pleading. And I could not help feeling touched, nor the feeling that I had been taken sore advantage of.

The boy (she always spoke of him as a boy) would be able to "pa.s.s." After perhaps two hundred years of outrace-breeding, after eight generations, there would be a child of her blood who could pa.s.s for white . . . Couldn' I understand? Didn' I see why she jus' had to have it?

I relented. I could have insisted on the abortion, and she would have had to submit. But I did not insist. Except for me, the child would not have been born.

When the pregnancy began to show, I moved her out of the house. From that day on, until she gave birth, I called on her at least twice a week.

I could not go through such an experience now. There were times, even then, when I thought I could stand no more. A white man-a white doctor!-visiting in the Negro slums! Treating a Negro woman! It was unheard of, unprecedented-a soul-shaking, pride-trampling experience. White doctors did not treat Negroes. Generally speaking, no one did. They simply did without medical attention, administering to themselves, when it was necessary, with home remedies and patent nostrums; delivering their own babies or depending on midwives.

All in all, they seemed to get by fairly well in that manner-although, Negro vital statistics being what they are, or were, one cannot be sure. And in the good health she was enjoying, I think that Hattie could have gotten by quite well without me. But it apparently didn't occur to her to suggest it. She didn't suggest it, anyway; and I hardly felt able to.

For that matter, I don't know that I would have been willing to leave her untended. In fact, and on reflection, I am quite sure that I would not. I was deeply in love with her, deeply concerned for her and our child. Otherwise, I would not have done what I did when the birth became imminent.

Negroes were not treated by white doctors, as I have said. This meant that they were not admitted to white hospitals-and there were nothing but white hospitals. There was a ramshackle, poorly staffed county inst.i.tution which admitted Negroes, but not unless it was absolutely impelled to. If a Negro was dying he might get in. If he did, he would probably never live to regret it.

Well. I was on the staff of one of the white hospitals. I had only recently obtained the appointment. I got Hattie admitted to it as a white woman, of Spanish-Indian descent.

I did that, knowing almost certainly that the fraud would be discovered. I loved her that much, thought that much of her-and, needless to say, the child.

They were giving her narrow-eyed looks from the moment she stepped through the door. They suspected her from the beginning; me and her. I could see that they did, see it and feel it. Then, when she was coming out of the anaesthesia, when she began to talk.

I shall never forget how they looked at me.

Or what the chief of staff said to me.

I was forced to remove her and the child the following day. I did not put itto an issue-how could I?-but if I had refused to remove them, I believe they would have been thrown out.

That was the end of my staff job, of course. The end of my practice, of everything in that state. Probably I can consider myself lucky that I wasn't lynched.

It was several days before I could nerve myself even to leave the house.