Blowback(13)

When I came down to Harry's cabin at six-thirty, he was dipping thin bass fillets in a mixture of beaten eggs and lemon juice and then rolling them through a platter of cornflake crumbs. I asked him if there was anything I could do, and he put me to work washing a chilled head of lettuce and breaking it up for a salad. While I did that, and while he began to melt and lightly season butter in a skillet, I told him about my encounters with the balance of his guests and the way I felt about matters-particularly Ray Jerrold.

He said worriedly, “You think it's that bad, then?”

“I'm afraid so, Harry.”

“So what do you suggest?”

“Find a way to get rid of the Jerrolds, and fast.”

“Yeah, but how? I told you about the money I owe him. He could just about push me under if he demanded immediate payment of that loan; I just can't afford to antagonize him.”

“Couldn't you soft-talk him, make him realize the only way he can be sure of his wife is by taking her away from all this temptation?”

“I tried that,” Harry said. He laid the breaded fillets into the butter in the skillet “He said the wolves were everywhere, one pack was no different than another, and he wasn't going to let any of them drive him away from a place he wanted to be.”

“And right now he wants to be here.”

“His words exactly.”

“All right, what about talking to her?”

“You mean trying to get her to take him home?”

“It's worth a shot.”

“What angle would I use?”

“You're concerned about his health, you think he ought to see a doctor. Either that, or you give it to her straight-tell her he's so jealous you're afraid he might do something irrational, and you've got your other guests to think about.”

“I don't know,” he said. “I've never been able to talk to her much; suppose I handle it wrong and she lets it get back to Jerrold? He wouldn't like it if he found out I went behind his back. Besides, if she is banging Cody or one of the others, why the hell should she leave on my request? She knows about the loan; she could laugh in my face and there wouldn't be a damned thing I could say or do.”

“I think you're going to have to risk it, Harry.”

“I wish to Christ there was another way.”

“Only one I can see is getting rid of everybody else.”

“I'd be cutting my own throat that way too.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“What if I can't get her to see it my way? Then what?”

“Why don't we cross that bridge if we come to it.”

He stared down into the skillet, brooding. “I don't want him hurting somebody in my camp, but I don't want to lose the camp either. This place is my whole life, buddy.”

I said nothing; there was nothing to say. I sympathized with him, and yet I felt none of the sense of involvement in his problem that I might have had a week ago. It was a sticky situation, and it could become tragic, but Harry would survive it all right; even if he lost the camp he would survive it. This place was not his whole life. That had been a figure of speech, meaningless at the gut level, because no place was anyone's whole life. Life was the continuing ability to function-physical and mental health. No more, no less.

At length he said heavily, “Okay. Okay, you're right I'll talk to her.”

Neither of us seemed to want any more conversation after that, and we finished making supper in silence. The buttery aroma of the frying bass filled the cabin, made me ravenous; I had not eaten anything at all today. So when we finally sat down I put away four of the fillets and two helpings of salad and five slices of French bread and two cans of beer. More than I should have eaten, or even wanted to eat. The past week, since Friday, I seemed either to want nothing at all or to stuff myself compulsively when I did feel hungry. Whatever that meant psychologically, I did not care enough to pursue an answer.

After we had cleaned up the dishes-Harry had barely touched his own food-we went out on the front porch. He fired up one of the thin brown cigars he liked, and I looked away and breathed through my mouth so that I couldn't smell any of the smoke. The sun had slipped down almost to the tops of the pines on the western ridges, and the sky around it was whitish and streaked in three or four shades of red, like a piece of linen stained with wine and lipstick and blood. The glassine surface of the lake looked as though it were on fire. It was a little cooler now, although there was still no breeze; unless the temperature dropped another five to ten degrees, sleeping was going to be uncomfortable tonight.

We had been there five minutes or so when Walt Bascomb put in an appearance. He saw us on the porch as he came past, but he did not say anything to either of us; he just went straight over to the parking circle and got into the '72 Ford. I noticed then that Cody had not returned with his Italian sports job, and that the new Cadillac was also absent.