Time Out of Joint Read online

  "The hell with it," Bill Black said, and went into the other room, by himself.

  Instantly Junie materialized in front of him. "You really have contempt because I don’t have your educational background," she said. Her face, stained with tears, seemed to blur and swell. She did not look so charming, now.

  Before he could phrase an answer, the door chimes sounded.

  "The door," he said.

  Junie stared at him and then she turned and left the room. He heard her open the front door and then he heard her voice, brisk and only partially under control, and another woman’s voice.

  Curiosity made him tag along after her.

  On the porch stood a large, timid-looking, middle-aged woman in a cloth coat. The woman carried a clipboard, a leather binder, and on her arm was an armband with an insigne. The woman droned on to Junie in a monotone, and at the same time she fumbled in the binder.

  Junie turned her head. "Civil Defense," she said.

  Seeing that she was too upset to talk, Black stepped up to the door and took her place. "What’s this?" he said.

  The timidity on the middle-aged woman’s face increased ; she cleared her throat and in a low voice said, "I’m sorry to bother you during the dinner hour, but I’m a neighbor of yours, I live down the street, and I’m conducting a door-to-door campaign for CD, Civil Defense. We’re badly in need of daytime volunteers, and we wondered if there might be anyone at home at your house during the day who could volunteer an hour or so during the week of his or her time...."

  Black said, "I don’t think so. My wife’s home, but she has other commitments."

  "I see," the middle-aged woman said. She recorded a few notes on a pad, and then smiled at him humbly. Evidently she took no for an answer the first time around. "Thank you anyhow," she said. Lingering, clearly not knowing how to make her exit, she said, "My name is Mrs. Keitelbein, Kay Keitelbein. I live in the house on the corner. The two-story older house."

  "Yes," he said, closing the door slightly.

  Returning, this time with a handkerchief to hold against her cheek, Junie said in a wavering voice, "Maybe the people next door can volunteer. He’s home during the day. Mr. Gumm. Ragle Gumm."

  "Thank you, Mrs.—" the woman said, with gratitude.

  "Black," Bill Black said. "Good night, Mrs. Keitelbein." He shut the door and switched on the porch light.

  "All day," Junie said. "Siding salesmen, brush salesmen, home reducing systems." She gazed at him bleakly, making first one shape and then another from her handkerchief.

  "I’m sorry we quarreled," he said. But he still had not gotten any dope out of her. The ins and outs of residential daytime intrigues ... wives were worse than politicians.

  "I’ll go look at the beef pies," Junie said. She went off in the direction of the kitchen.

  Hands in his pockets he trailed after her, still determined to pick up what information he could.

  Stepping from the sidewalk onto the path of the next house, Kay Keitelbein felt her way to the porch and rang the bell.

  The door opened and a plump, good-natured man in a white shirt and dark, unpressed slacks greeted her.

  She said, "Are... you Mr. Gumm?"

  "No," he said. "I’m Victor Nielson. Ragle is here, though. Come on inside." He held the door open for her and she entered the house. "Sit down," he said, "if you want. I’ll go get him."

  "Thank you very much, Mr. Nielson," she said. She seated herself near the door, on a straight-backed chair, her binder and literature on her lap. The house, warm and pleasant, smelled of dinner. Not such a good time to drop by, she told herself. Too close to the dinner hour. But she could see the table in the dining room; they had not sat down yet. An attractive woman with brown hair was setting the table. The woman glanced at her questioningly. Mrs. Keitelbein nodded back.

  And then Ragle Gumm came along the hall toward her.

  A charity drive, he decided as soon as he saw her. "Yes?" he said, steeling himself.

  The drab, earnest-faced woman arose from the chair. "Mr. Gumm," she said, "I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m here for CD. Civil Defense."

  "I see," he said.

  She explained that she lived down the street. Listening, he wondered why she had selected him, not Vic. Probably because of his fame. He had got a number of proposals in the mail, proposals that he contribute his winnings to causes that would survive him.

  "I am at home during the day," he admitted, when she had finished. "But I’m working. I’m self-employed."

  "Just an hour or two a week," Mrs. Keitelbein said.

  That didn’t seem like much. "Doing what?" he said. "I don’t have a car, if you’re thinking of drivers." Once the Red Cross had come by appealing for volunteer drivers.

  Mrs. Keitelbein said, "No, Mr. Gumm, it’s a class in instruction for disaster."

  That struck him as being apt. "What a good idea," he said.

  "Pardon me?"

  He said, "Instruction for disaster. Sounds fine. Any special kind of disaster?"

  "CD works whenever there’s a disaster from floods or windstorms. Of course, it’s the hydrogen bomb that we’re all so concerned about, especially now that the Soviet Union has those new ICBM missiles. What we want to do is train individuals in each part of the city to know what to do when disaster strikes. Administer first aid, speed the evacuation, know what food is probably contaminated and what food isn’t. For instance, Mr. Gumm, each family should lay in a seven-day store of food, including a seven-day store of fresh water."

  Dubious still, he said, "Well, leave me your number and I’ll give it some thought."

  With her pencil Mrs. Keitelbein wrote out her name, address, and phone number at the bottom of a pamphlet. "Mrs. Black next door suggested your name," she said.

  "Oh," he said. And it occurred to him instantly that Junie saw it as a means by which they could meet. "A number of individuals from this neighborhood will be attending instruction, I take it," he said.

  "Yes," Mrs. Keitelbein said. "At least we hope they will."

  "Put me down," he said. "I’m sure I can make it to class one or two hours a week."

  Thanking him, Mrs. Keitelbein departed. The door closed after her.

  Good for Junie, he said to himself.

  And now dinner.

  "You mean you signed up?" Margo demanded, as they seated themselves at the table.

  "Why not?" he said. "It’s common sense and patriotic."

  "But you’re over your head in your contest."

  "Couple hours a week won’t make any difference," he said.

  "You make me feel guilty," Margo sighed. "I’ve got nothing to do all day, and you have. I should go. Maybe I will."

  "No," he said, not wanting her along. Not if it was going to work out as a means of seeing Junie. "You’re not invited. Just me."

  "That seems unfair," Vic said. "Can’t women be patriots?"

  Sammy spoke up, "I’m a patriot. Back in the clubhouse we’ve got the best atomic cannon in the United States, and it’s trained to Moscow." He created explosion-noises in the back of his mouth.

  "How’s the crystal set coming?" Ragle said.

  "Swell," Sammy said. "It’s finished."

  "What have you picked up?"

  "Nothing so far," Sammy said, "but I’m just about to."

  "You let us know when you do," Vic said.

  "I just have a few adjustments to complete," Sammy said.

  After Margo had cleared the dinner dishes away and brought in the dessert, Vic said to Ragle, "Make any progress today?"

  "I got it off at six," he answered. "As usual."

  "I mean the other business," Vic said.

  Actually he had done very little. The contest work had tied him up. "I started listing the separate facts in the magazines," he said. "Under different catagories. Until I get it broken down and listed there’s not much I can say." He had set up twelve categories: politics, economics, movies, art, crime, fashions, science, etc. "I got to looking up
the different auto dealers in the white section, under their brand names. Chevrolet, Plymouth, DeSoto. They’re all listed except one."

  "Which one?" Vic said.

  "Tucker."

  "That’s strange," Vic said.

  "Maybe the dealer has some personal title," Ragle said. "Such as ’Norman G. Selkirk, Tucker Dealer.’ But anyhow, I pass it along to you for what it’s worth."

  Margo said, "Why do you use the name ’Selkirk’?"

  "I don’t know," he said. "Just selected at random."

  "There’s no random," Margo said. "Freud has shown that there’s always a psychological reason. Think about the name ’Selkirk.’ What does it suggest to you?"

  Ragle thought about it. "Maybe I saw the name when I was going through the phone book." These damn associations, he thought. As in the puzzle clues. No matter how hard a person tried, he never got them under control. They continued to run him. "I have it," he said finally. "The man that the book Robinson Crusoe was based on. Alexander Selkirk."

  "I didn’t know it was based on anything," Vic said.

  "Yes," he said. "There was a real castaway."

  "I wonder why you thought of that," Margo said. "A man living alone on a tiny island, creating his own society around him, his own world. All his utensils, clothes—"

  "Because," Ragle said, "I spent a couple of years on such an island during World War Two."

  Vic said, "Do you have any theory yet?"

  "About what’s wrong?" Ragle inclined his head toward Sammy, who was listening.

  "It’s okay," Vic said. "He’s been following the whole thing. Haven’t you McBoy?"

  "Yes," Sammy said.

  With a wink to Ragle, Vic said to his son, "Tell us what’s wrong, then."

  Sammy said, "They’re trying to dupe us."

  "He heard me say that," Margo said.

  "Who’s trying to dupe us?" Vic said.

  "The—enemy," Sammy said, after hesitating.

  "What enemy?" Ragle said.

  Sammy considered and finally said, "The enemy that’s everywhere around us. I don’t know their names. But they’re everywhere. I guess they’re the Reds."

  To the boy, Ragle said, "And how are they duping us?"

  With confidence, Sammy said, "They’ve got their dupe-guns trained on us dead center."

  They all laughed. Sammy colored and began playing with his empty dessert dish.

  "Their atomic dupe-guns?" Vic said.

  Sammy muttered, "I forget if they’re atomic or not."

  "He’s way ahead of us," Ragle said.

  After dinner Sammy went off to his room. Margo did the dishes in the kitchen, and the two men adjourned to the living room. Almost at once the doorbell rang.

  "Maybe it’s your pal Mrs. Keitelbein back," Vic said, going to the door.

  Standing on the porch was Bill Black. "Hi," he said, entering the house. "I’ve got something for you fellows." He tossed Ragle a couple of objects, which Ragle caught. Ball-point pens, and good ones by their look. "Couple for you, too," Black said to Vic. "Some firm up north mailed them to us, but we can’t keep them. Against a city ruling involving gifts. You have to either eat it up, smoke it up, or drink it up the day you got it, or you can’t keep it."

  "But it’s all right to give them to us," Vic said, examining the pens. "Well thanks, Black. I can use these down at the store."

  I wonder, Ragle wondered. Should we say anything to Black? He managed to catch his brother-in-law’s eye. There seemed to be a nod of approval there, so he said, "You got a minute?"

  "I guess so," Black said.

  "There’s something we want to show you," Vic said.

  "Sure," Black said. "Let’s see it."

  Vic started off to get the magazines, but Ragle suddenly said, "Wait a minute." To Black he said, "Have you ever heard of somebody named Marilyn Monroe?"

  Black, at that, got an odd, secretive look on his face. "What is this?" he drawled.

  "Have you or haven’t you?"

  "Sure I have," he said.

  "He’s a phony," Vic said. "He thinks it’s some gag and he doesn’t want to bite."

  "Give us an honest answer," Ragle said. "There’s no gag."

  "Of course I’ve heard of her," Black said.

  "Who is she?"

  "She—" Black glanced into the other room to see if either Margo or Sammy could hear. "She’s a Holly-wood actress."

  I’ll be darned, Ragle thought.

  "Stay here," Vic said. He went off and returned with the picture magazine. Holding it so Black couldn’t see it, he said, "What picture has she made that’s supposed to be her best?"

  "That’s a matter of opinion," Black said.

  "Just name one, then."

  Black said, "The Taming of the Shrew."

  Both Ragle and Vic examined the article, but there was no mention of her having done the Shakespeare comedy.

  "Name another," Vic said. "That one isn’t listed."

  Black gestured irritably. "What is this? I don’t get to the movies very much."

  Ragle said, "According to this article, she’s married to an important playwright. What’s his name?"

  Without hesitation, Black said, "Arthur Miller."

  Well, Ragle decided, there goes all of that.

  "Why haven’t we heard of her, then?" he asked Black.

  Snorting with derision, Black said, "Don’t blame me."

  "Has she been famous long?"

  "No. Not particularly. You remember Jane Russell. That big build-up about The Outlaw."

  "No," Vic said. Ragle also shook his head.

  "Anyhow," Black said, clearly perturbed but trying not to show it, "they’ve got the machinery going. Making a star out of her overnight." He stopped talking and came over to see the magazine. "What is this?" he asked. "Can I look at it, or is it secret?"

  "Let him see it," Ragle said.

  After he had studied the magazine Black said, "Well, it’s been a few years. Maybe she’s dropped out of sight already. But when Junie and I were going together, before we were married, we used to go to the drive-in movies, and I remember seeing this Gentlemen Prefer Blondes that the article mentions."

  In the direction of the kitchen, Vic shouted, "Hey honey—Bill Black’s heard of her."

  Margo appeared, drying a blue willow plate. "Has he? Well then I guess that clears that up."

  "Clears what up?" Black asked.

  "We had a theory we were experimenting with," Margo said.

  "What theory?"

  Ragle said, "It seemed to the three of us that something had gone wrong."

  "Where?" Black said. "I don’t get what you mean."

  None of them said anything, then.

  "What else have you got to show me?" Black said.

  "Nothing," Ragle said.

  "They found a phone book," Margo said. "Along with the magazines. Part of a phone book."

  "Where did you find all these?"

  Ragle said, "What the hell do you care?"

  "I don’t care," Black said. "I just think you’re out of your mind." He sounded more and more angry. "Let’s have a look at the phone book."

  Vic got the book and handed it to him. Black sat down and leafed through it, with the same frenetic expression on his face. "What’s there about this?" he said. "It’s from upstate. They don’t use these numbers any more." He slapped, the book shut and tossed it on the table; it started to slide off, to the floor, and Vic rescued it. "I’m surprised at the three of you," Black said. "Especially you, Margo." Reaching out his hand he grabbed the phone book away from Vic, got to his feet, and started to the front door. "I’ll bring this back to you in a day or so. I want to go through it and see if I can track down some kids Junie went to Cortez High with. There’s a whole flock of them she can’t find; they’re probably married by now. Mostly girls." The front door closed after him and he was gone.

  "He certainly got upset," Margo said after a pause.

  "Hard to know what to make of that,"
Vic said.

  Ragle wondered if he ought to go after Bill Black and get the telephone book back. But apparently it was worthless. So he did not.

  Hopping mad, Bill Black flung open the front door of his house and ran past his wife to the phone.

  "What’s wrong?" Junie asked. "Did you have a fight with them? With Ragle?" She came up close beside him as he dialed Lowery’s number. "Tell me what happened. Did you have it out with Ragle? I want to know what he said. If he said there had ever been anything between us, he’s a liar."

  "Beat it," he said to her. "Please, Junie. For Christ’s sake. This is business." He glared at her until she gave up and went off.

  "Hello," Lowery’s voice sounded in his ear.

  Black squatted on his haunches, holding the receiver close to his mouth so that Junie couldn’t hear. "I was over there," he said. "They got their hands on a phone book, a current or nearly current one. I’ve got it, now. I managed to wangle it away from them; I still don’t know how."

  "Did you find out where they got it?"

  "No," he admitted, "I got sore and left. It really threw me, walking in there and having them say, ’Hey Black—you ever heard of a woman named Marilyn Monroe,’ and then trotting out a couple of battered, weather-beaten old magazines and flashing them in my face. That was a miserable few minutes." He was still trembling and perspiring; holding the phone with his shoulder he succeeded in getting his cigarettes and lighter from his pocket. The lighter slipped from his hand and rolled out of reach; he gazed after it resignedly.

  "Oh I see," Lowery said. "They don’t have Marilyn Monroe. It didn’t get fitted in."

  "No," he said.

  "You say the magazines and phone book were weather-beaten."

  "Yes," he said. "Very."

  "Then they must have found them in a garage or outdoors. I think probably in that old bombed-out armory the county used to maintain. The rubble is still there; you people never cleared it."

  "We can’t!" Black said. "It’s county property; it’s up to them. And anyhow there’s nothing there. Just cement blocks and the drainage system that carried off the r.a. wastes."

  "You better get a city work truck and a few men and pave those lots. Put a fence up."

  "We’ve been trying to get permission from the county," he said. "Anyhow I don’t think they found the stuff there. If they did—and I say if—it’s because somebody salted the ground, there."