Kill Me a Fortune

1

IN A nasal monotone, Mrs. Hennessey read interminably one of her pale, pointless little stories. From my desk before the class, I looked out over the bored faces. I stifled a yawn behind my hand. I glanced at my watch. It was thirteen minutes until nine — at which time I would close the last of the Adult Education classes in creative writing before the long summer intermission.

The place was Room 204, Hillside High, Hollywood, California. It was night. Wednesday as usual. At that moment, listening to the last of Mrs. Hennessey’s dreary tomes, no one could have convinced me that in the next five minutes something completely unpredictable would happen to change abruptly the listless complexion of the night. And the summer. And even my life.

The class contained a half-dozen pudgy housewives like Mrs. Hennessey. Then there was a potpourri of male office and odd-job workers. And odd-ball characters who apparently did nothing but chase from class to class in pursuit of art. And finally the single girls who bunched together in the back of the room — except for Barbara Dawson, who sat always cool and alone. Twenty-one in all, and not three among them who showed the least promise. Some of my day students in English One at Hillside High could do better.

When Paul Ferris, who heads the Adult Education program, asked me to take the class, I hadn’t expected he was offering me a group of ready-made talents. I knew from experience that ninety per cent of all beginners were dreamers and escapees from the dull realities of living and hustling a buck. Yet I accepted. Because since I broke up with Alice Rumsey, and she got married and moved to Mexico City, I had been drifting in a gray cloud of gloom, looking impossibly for her replacement. And the two hours on Wednesday seemed a small island of relief in the brooding nights. I wanted other faces and other thoughts than my own. I wanted other problems. And because I kept the class informal and made myself an available crying towel after hours, I got them. My God, what problems! I never could go home feeling sorry for myself.

At Hillside I taught English and physical ed. An odd combination perhaps. But I’m a big guy, six-one at a hundred and ninety. I played football at UCLA, and I was pretty good at boxing. I have always been physically co-ordinated, and, even now at thirty-two, reasonably enthusiastic about participating sports. That’s one side. The other, the spiritual you might call it, is thoughtful and complex, sensitive and decently emotional. It got me into teaching English and writing in my spare time, selling a book and maybe a couple of short stories in a lucky year. The rest has to do with personal things like my family in Denver, the girls I have known and slept with, the one or two I almost married, things like that, none of them pertinent to what happened on this particular night and thereafter.

But now Mrs. Hennessey was mouthing her poor carbon of a poor story in a typical slick magazine. And only one or two housewives, who wrote the same sort of thing were listening with rapture. The others were squirming their behinds or doodling or looking off into space.

At the left rear of the room, separated from the rest of the students by a fence of empty desks, sat Barbara Dawson. She was always last to enter the room. She came in quietly, found a remote corner, read with soft confidence when called on (not bad stuff, either), and was the first to vanish into the night. No one really knew where she went or what she was. And her attitude, though not really snooty or condescending, forbade questions. She registered for the course as living at a Hollywood hotel, claimed to be visiting from New York, and was unemployed at present.

She was in her middle twenties and had about her a certain look and sound of elegance. The casual and simple smartness of her clothes suggested Fifth Avenue. Her long dark hair had the debutante brush and shine. She walked with erect grace and wore about her a soft cloak of poise. She read her brittle stories in a voice laced with finishing-school overtones, while nothing about her was affected or posed.

It was difficult to tell if her remoteness was natural or defensive. She was sealed within — secretive. But only about herself, her intimate thoughts and actions. In all matters concerning the class she was uninhibited, a sharp critic, eager to learn her mistakes, taking a quiet part in every discussion. But at nine o’clock she shut herself like a book and stole away.

She had not always come to the class alone. There was a time, in the beginning, when Barbara was accompanied by a young man about her age. Vandiver, his name was. Larry Vandiver. He was a very big boy, that one. Six-three maybe, and massive. But he was a puppy dog with a round face, a shy grin, and tail-wagging, obedient eyes. He was her mascot. You could almost see the invisible chain she held to the collar around his neck. Yet, though they came and went together and sat only a seat apart, she all but ignored him.

I could tell right away that he had no interest in writing. He sat beside her in his little fog of worship, sometimes scratching a note to her. (She never read the notes. With a perfectly bland face, she tore them into tiny fragments.) When called upon for an opinion, Vandiver’s answers were terse and vague, as if my interruption of his reverie was an annoying imposition. He never fulfilled the smallest assignment or volunteered a comment.

Tell me, Mr. Vandiver, I said one evening when I had to raise my voice to something like a shout to get his attention. Tell me, why do you bother to come to this class at all?

There was a silence, and he turned slowly to look at Barbara Dawson.

I nodded, said, I see. Thank you very much, Mr. Vandiver.

Howls and giggles broke over the room. And that one time I saw Miss Barbara Dawson lose her composure. Her face colored and her mouth clamped in a line thin and angry as a new scar. Her eyes narrowed upon Vandiver and the bulk of him shrank in his chair.

That was the last time I saw Mr. Larry Vandiver. He never returned to the class. And though I was secretly relieved, it seemed the more natural thing to inquire after him. Besides, I was curious about Barbara and it gave me an excuse to speak to her privately. So one night as she began to fade towards the door even before the echo of my last word to the class had died, I called her name.

Miss Dawson, just a minute, please!

She turned with a startled look on her face, caught off balance for a moment, swaying, falling from her toes, returning with anxious frown to my desk.

Yes, Mr. Elliot? Long fingers with their pale-rose nails extended, tips bent, on a corner of my desk, supporting.

I looked around her, waiting until the last student had closed the door behind him.

You wanted to speak to me, Mr. Elliot?

Sit down a moment, won’t you, Miss Dawson?

I really can’t stay.

I see. Which is not always to understand. I was slightly irritated.

I’m sorry, Mr. Elliot. It’s just that I have certain obligations.

Of course. I smiled. I merely wanted to know what happened to your friend.

My friend? Mr. Vandiver.

Oh. She shifted her weight and retreated to that cool sanctum behind her eyes. Well, he’s not really my friend. Just an acquaintance. I have no idea what happened to him. I haven’t seen him in — well, not since …

The last time he was here?

Yes. That’s right.

I wondered why he dropped out so suddenly.

Do you miss him? She smiled.

No, not really, I smiled back.

Is there anything else, then?

No. I won’t hold you. Nothing else. Except to say that I like your work. It develops a certain bite and power that the others lack altogether.

She brightened. Thank you! That pleases me more than you know.

Yes, well I mean it. Your writing has a kind of brittle conviction and authority. It moves with certainty and direction. That’s good. The rest is work. Lots and lots of it.

I’m willing. And thanks.

You bet. Next week then. Good night.

‘Night.

She turned, clutching her notebook under her arm, paused in stride and swung back.

Mr. Elliot, she said hesitantly. Sometime … sometime I’d like to talk with you.

Any time. About your writing?

Again she hesitated. Yes, about my writing, she said quickly.

About your writing. Or anything at all, I said. I’m not in any hurry tonight if you —

Next week perhaps, she called over her shoulder, going away. And with a little wave went out the door.

I knew she did not want to talk to me about writing. She came next week and every week. But as always, without a word to me, she escaped like a shadow from the room.

Sometimes, as now, when some bore like Mrs. Hennessey was reading, I caught her watching me furtively. And, as now, I gave her a little twist of a smile. She did not look away, but stared unblinking, pretending not to notice.

I glanced again at my watch. It was eight minutes before nine. Mrs. Hennessey caught the movement, stopped, fluttered her eyes, cleared her throat.

Shall I go on? she said. Or is it time?

On and on, by all means, I said. It’s the last night, you know.

I have only six more tiny pages, she answered. And, over a faint chorus of sighs, cleared her throat again and continued.

She might have gone on into summer. But at that moment the hall door opened and Paul Ferris tiptoed to my desk. He is not at all a solemn type, but his face was grave.

Couple of men out in the hall want to see you right away, Ross, he said.

Won’t it wait? I whispered above the drone of Mrs. Hennessey, who had looked up, paused, droned on.

Ferris shook his head.

Who are they, Paul?

He came close to my ear. Detectives, he answered.

I followed him outside, closing