The Just And The Unjust Read online

  Mr. Schaeffer said, 'Well, I guess you're right. Don't like their looks much.'

  Jesse stood calm and grave, waiting without impatience, without choosing to intrude himself, for the exchange to end. Abner said, 'We don't like them much.'

  'No,' said Mr. Schaeffer. 'That fellow they killed wasn't any good, either, I hear. Dope dealer, or something, wasn't he?'

  'The Federal Bureau of Investigation thinks so.'

  'That's what I heard,' Mr. Schaeffer said. He put his glass down. 'No, no,' he said to Harry Wurts. 'One's my limit.'

  Abner said, 'Hello, Jesse.'

  Jesse Gearhart's thin grey hair lay flat and damp on his wide head. Jesse nodded in reply. His large, tired-looking grey eyes, pensive in his somewhat grey face, brightened a little as he left whatever his thoughts were and gave his attention to Abner. Abner had never liked Jesse, but he had not always disliked him. As Republican county chairman, Jesse was for years accustomed to consult with Judge Coates; and Abner had early taken Jesse, and Jesse's relative or local importance, for granted. The county had been Republican for almost a generation. This meant that the Republicans were entrenched in power; they had all the jobs. Having all the jobs meant having also an increasing monopoly of the ambitious, able and experienced men. Ambitious men could see the situation; able men could not expect to get anywhere with the Democrats; and as for experience, a Democrat could never be elected, and so could never get any experience.

  Abner had seen how this worked. He had done a good deal of speaking for the party ticket at elections since he had been in office on Marty's appointment. The Republican candidates for whom he spoke, though no great shakes perhaps, were invariably and obviously better fitted for the office they sought than their Democratic opponents. It was simple enough to say so; and to point out why; and Abner was glad to do it, when some Lodge, or Loyal Republican Club, wanted a speaker. Few of these gatherings were so small or so insignificant that Jesse Gearhart did not manage to be on hand, if only briefly; and when Jesse was there, he was at pains afterward to thank Abner and to congratulate him.

  It seemed an odd thing to dislike a man for; but Abner knew that was how and when he had begun to dislike Jesse. At college, where he had done some debating, and at law school, Abner had learned that he was not a gifted speaker, just as he had learned that he did not have to be gifted in order to make a sensible and adequate speech. When Jesse told him he was wonderful, Abner did not know what to reply. If Jesse really thought so, Jesse was a fool; if Jesse did not really think so, he must imagine Abner was a fool. Furthermore, Abner did not like Jesse's — well, the word was presumption, in acting as though Abner worked fbr Jesse, when in fact Abner did what he did because Marty asked him to; and because he himself believed that the public interest would be better served by the Republican candidates.

  These grounds for disliking Jesse were not good nor reasonable; and Abner made every effort to conceal his feelings. To conceal them was not, however, to be rid of them. Abner supposed that his mental process was the ordinary one; but, just as concealing dislike did not cure dislike, recognizing a shifty piece of rationalization did not end the process of rationalizing. If a man felt hostility and aversion, but saw that he had poor or no grounds for his feeling, the remedy was to look for good or at least better grounds — a search his predisposing thoughts would help him in. Abner could say that he did not like politics; nor Jesse's function in them, a function clearly at variance with avowed principles. In theory, the people could, and surely ought to, enounce the nominations at the primaries; but in practice what they did at the primaries was accept the men Jesse designated. At the election, which the Republicans were sure to win, the people then elected those men to office. If this did not mean that Jesse had the whole say about who was to fill every elective public office, what did it mean? If it meant that, Abner, in spite of his speeches, and notwithstanding Jesse's men were the better men, did not like it.

  Jesse said, 'Have a hard day, Ab?'

  'So-so,' said Abner. 'It gets pretty long.'

  'Such a crowd, I didn't come over.'

  With an effort of will, Abner said, 'If you want to hear any of it, Marty could get you a seat all right. I don't know that it's very interesting.'

  'Have a lot of newspaper men?'

  'Quite a few, this morning. I noticed most of them weren't there this afternoon.'

  'One of their editors, a friend of mine — Ed Robertson, as a matter of fact, maybe you know him — called me up. He was trying to find out when the defendants were going to be on the stand.'

  'I couldn't tell you that,' Abner said. 'Basso refused to plead, so I don't suppose he's likely to testify. I guess Harry will put Howell on, all right. I think the Commonwealth ought to finish to-morrow. So, maybe Thursday. There's no reason why your friend shouldn't ask Harry, if he wants to.'

  'Marty's not going to call them?'

  'How could he?' Abner asked, taken aback. Jesse Gearhart often showed a good knowledge of law as it applied to county and municipal business; but presumably his knowledge stopped short where it ceased to have practical value. Abner said, 'That's up to the defence. You can be pretty sure it won't be to-morrow. We have this Leming fellow — well, of course he's technically one of the defendants, but we can call him because he's turning state's evidence.'

  'Are you going to have him to-morrow?'

  'I think so, sometime to-morrow,' Abner said, 'but I can't really say, Jesse. Marty decides. You'd better ask him.' Abner spoke earnestly and as cordially as he could — perhaps too cordially; and he was aware that he did not like Jesse any better for causing him this discomfort; for making Abner sound artificial and feel insincere; maybe for thinking (and why shouldn't Jesse think it?) that Abner was awkwardly making up to him with the ignoble hope (what other?) that some day, when Marty resigned, Jesse might condescend to pick him as the candidate for district attorney.

  Jesse nodded and moved on. Like most of Jesse's acts and gestures, and, for that matter, many of his remarks, the nod and the moving-on were not informative. There was no way of knowing whether Jesse resented Abner's exclamation at what Abner considered Jesse's amazing ignorance; whether Jesse thought Abner was currying favour at the last there, and if he thought so, whether he was delighted or disgusted. The nod could be either thanks or dismissal, the walking-away could be either because he was satisfied, or because he had wasted enough time. Abner moved, too; and with some discomfort of mind, sat down at the long, disordered supper table. He had seated himself, saving a place next to him for Bonnie, but she did not immediately come to take it. Abner could see her talking to her mother while they were busy with the coffee over an oil stove. About thirty-five people were at the table under the awning, and there was not much room, so when Annette Vredenburgh, the Judge's daughter, appeared at his elbow and said, 'Can I sit here, Ab?' he was obliged to say, 'Sure'.

  Annette was not more than eighteen. Privately, Abner was surprised that her parents let her come on these parties; and also that she wanted to come, since everybody else was older. She was a plain girl, but popular with her contemporaries. Because she did not have a pretty face, her confident, presuming air of a sought-after woman must almost inevitably be due to liberties she was ready to allow when boys took her out. Annette was one of the kids who went to the Black Cat, a road house Bunting kept his eye on. Abner did not think she was aware that the district attorney's office had obtained her name, along with several others, as a frequent patron; and it made him impatient with her — silly little fool! — to know that she probably imagined her father could never find out. She said to him, 'Father didn't think it was suitable for him to come. Because of the trial. It didn't stop you, I see.'

  'Why should it stop me?' said Abner. Her manner of a fascinating woman — the glances through her eyelashes, the little capricious jerks of her chin, the tone, which perhaps she considered coolly ironic — was so patently supposititious, so plainly an imitation of something she had seen, or read, that Abner could no
t help smiling.

  Annette said, 'Oh, you know! Father's so solemn. He told mother he thought it would be very improper, when he was sitting in a capital case, for him to attend parties or entertainments. I suppose he has to be that way. Would you like to be a judge?'

  She was a fresh brat; but she was also a young woman, and it was awkward to tell her off, so Abner said, 'Don't you think I'd make a good one?'

  'Maybe you would,' she said. She gave him the look she probably thought of as enigmatic; veiled but searching. 'It depends upon what you're really like, I suppose. It's hard to tell about people, isn't it?'

  'I generally don't find it hard,' Abner said indifferently.

  'That's because you have an analytical mind,' Annette said. 'I wish I had. It isn't easy to be a woman in a man's world. You think I'm just a silly little fool —'

  Since that was exactly, to the word, his thought of a few minutes ago, Abner nearly laughed, and so nearly choked. He swallowed and said, 'But, you mean, you aren't.'

  'Oh!' said Annette. She had her father's blue eyes, and bridling, they took that same glinting cast that Abner had seen a hundred times directed from the bench on counsel or a witness. 'Men are all alike!' she said. 'You don't think I could possibly be serious, do you? It's so tiresome! That's what I mean. I keep hoping that maybe the reason boys are so boring is that they aren't grown-up —you can't imagine how tired I get of them. All they want to do is go dancing in stupid dives, or drink too much, or paw you —'

  'You don't mean out at the Black Cat, do you?' Abner said.

  She looked at him, surprised, very wide eyed (her tragic look, no doubt). 'Yes,' she said, lowering her voice. 'I don't know how you knew. I went once or twice because I thought it might be amusing.' She lifted her shoulders and looked away past him toward the canal bank in the twilight. 'Well, what can you do? Don't imagine I like it.'

  'Then you ought not to do it,' Abner said.

  She said reproachfully, 'Don't you ever do anything you shouldn't?' She managed to imply that, beset with temptations, her sensual nature often betrayed her; and so, if you wanted to tempt her, too, you would not necessarily be wasting your time.

  Abner said, 'It wouldn't be very nice for your father if something happened out there and you got subpoenaed.'

  She was disconcerted; but she said lightly, 'Oh, surely father would fix that! What's the use of being the Judge's daughter if you can't get away with anything?'

  Abner was inclined to answer, 'You don't know your father very well.' But, of course, she was right; except that it wouldn't be her father. The use of being the Judge's daughter was that the district attorney's office would make sure before any officers were sent to the Black Cat, that Annette was not there; or if she were, that she got out first.

  Annette said, 'Anyway, how thrilling! Think of the scandal! Is Mr. Bunting going to raid it — like the movies? If I were Mrs. Bunting, I'd go, too. I wouldn't let him get that Dagmar, that fan dancer, alone for a good grilling. I mean that as a joke. She is the most revolting creature, in case you haven't seen her.'

  From across the board table, Dorothy Nyce said, 'What are you two so absorbed in?'

  Abner said, 'Miss Vredenburgh is discussing local conditions with me.' Dorothy Nyce, known then as Dotty Wellman, had been at school with him; and, now Abner thought about it, had enjoyed a popularity probably not unlike Annette's. That had been, say, fifteen years ago, when Annette was an infant. Now that Abner thought further about it, he could remember, excited by what other boys told him, himself pursuing Dotty. He had not got much for his pains; but he wondered if Dotty ever thought of things like that; and whether it embarrassed her to be able to guess — she must be able to, by now — what her 'admirers' had really thought of her; in short, whether she despised herself, or just despised them. Abner guessed it was the latter. She had had several drinks, and she said with an intentional leer, 'And how are conditions, fair and warmer? Dick's having a birthday party to-morrow night. Come?'

  'Try to,' said Abner, who had no such intention. He saw Dick Nyce, her husband, down at the table's end where he and Harry Wurts and Mark Irwin had their heads together over the littered table, singing softly against the babble of voices and the continuing radio music: '... but his mind was weak and low; he was wild and woolly and full of fleas —'

  Adelaide Maurer brought up a chocolate layer cake. Annette took a piece; but Abner shook his head. 'How'd your story go?' he said.

  'Oh, they only wanted half a column! I think they're mean! I tried to give them your speech; but they didn't want it.'

  'They've got a nerve!' Abner said.

  He heard Cousin Mary's raised voice crying, 'Why don't some of you men light the lanterns? Harry Wurts, why don't you stop singing that disgusting song and — where's Ab? I saw him just sitting there, stuffing himself.'

  'I'll do it,' Abner called back, getting up with relief.

  Farther down the table, Joe Jackman got up, too. While Abner lifted down the coloured paper lanterns and held them collapsed, Joe struck matches and lit the candles inside. He said, 'What are you trying to do, rob the cradle?'

  Abner said, 'Robbery is the felonious and forcible taking from the person of another, goods or money to any value, by violence or putting in fear. It won't stick.'

  'Somebody ought to put her in fear,' Joe said. 'If I were her father, I'd warm her little bottom.'

  The Chinese lanterns, replaced one after another along the frame of the awning support, brightened softly as the candle flames increased and steadied. The fragile shapes glowed pink and yellow and green in the dusk under the dark masses of the canal-side elms. Surrounded, half overhung and canopied by these tree shadows, the gliding barge, its coloured lanterns, its sounds of music and voices, seemed to float in pure twilight, midway between the water and the sky.

  Doctor Mosher had been sitting near the bow with Mr. Schaeffer, their red cigar ends burning together. He got up and came over to Abner as the last lantern was lighted. Doctor Mosher's stocky figure with its firm little belly was clothed in a white linen suit. His short grey hair was mussed up, his square pugnacious face down in the mouth. 'Ab,' he said, drawing him aside, 'why the devil don't you do something about your father? Can't you see what he needs? He says you don't tell him things.'

  'Well,' said Abner, surprised, 'there's nothing much to tell him.'

  'It doesn't have to be much,' Doctor Mosher said. 'God Almighty, boy, what do you suppose a man thinks of, sitting there all day? Well, maybe you aren't old enough to know.'

  'I can see he'd naturally get pretty low in his mind,' Abner said, 'but —'

  'Pretty low in his mind!' said Doctor Mosher. He shook overboard ashes from the cigar between his blunt fingers, 'Well, that'll do, that'll do; until you find out for yourself. Get after him, Ab! Don't do it so any fool can see what you're doing; but tell him about what's going on in court, ask him things, make him talk. When you see him sitting there, not saying anything, do you know what he's thinking about half the time? He's thinking about dying. The human mind doesn't like that. Pitch in and break it up!' He put a hand against Abner's shoulder, half patting him, half pushing him away, turned and went back to the camp stool next to Mr. Schaeffer.

  Silently rounding a long bend, the barge rounded a rise of ground, too; and there, just on the treetops, above the humped frame of an approaching wagon bridge, the vast dusky full moon floated clear, floated mirrored in the unstirred lane of silent water. 'Hurray!' shouted Harry Wurts. 'Soft o'er the fountain —' He swept out an arm, clasping the first female within reach, who happened to be Bonnie, and seated her on his knee. 'What beauty!' he said, 'what romance! What-'

  Bonnie said, 'Unhand me, you souse!' and got up.

  Abner walked down and said, 'You don't need protection, do you?'

  'A lot I'd get from you!' Bonnie said. She undid a flowered apron she had been wearing and tossed it folded into a hamper. 'Now, maybe I can eat,' she said. 'Ab, get some coffee for me, will you? Mother has a pot over th
ere.'

  Abner brought the cup down to her and sat at the corner of the table. 'Haven't you had anything to eat?' he said. 'I tried to save a place for you —'

  'I saw you trying.'

  'You mean my new girl-friend?' Abner murmured. 'Don't you like her?'

  'She isn't such a fool as you think,' Bonnie said. 'She isn't after you.'

  'Well, who is she after? You wound me.'

  'I could tell you that, too. If you weren't so wrapped up in yourself, you could see.'

  'Say, are you mad?' said Abner, advancing his elbow to slouch across the corner of the table. 'Say, who made that chicken salad? It's good.'

  'I made it,' said Bonnie.'

  'I knew you did. That's why I said it. You mustn't be mad because all the girls like me. I can't help it.'

  Bonnie's clear face had clouded, and she looked at her plate, entirely engaged in eating, Abner took a drinking straw from the package beside the iced tea pitcher and poked her cheek with it. 'Don't be such a clown, Ab,' she said; 'it doesn't suit you.'

  'Now, wait a minute,' Abner said, 'you were all right before supper. What don't you like? My elbow on the table?'

  'You thought I was all right. You always think I am.'

  'No, I don't,' said Abner. 'I'll tell you how I tell. There is your all-right voice, and your not-all-right voice, if you follow me — O.K. I'm sorry. But tell me sometime, will you?'

  He stood up. Harry Wurts dropped an arm over his shoulder and affected to hang on him. 'Let her eat!' he said. 'Never argue with women on an empty stomach. You need exercise. I see someone tapping a beer keg. I must prepare. I mean, there is a little tapping — er, excuse me, m'am! It's time we stretched our legs, Counsellor. Carry me ashore!'