Roscoe by William Kennedy Read Free Book Online Page B

both of us.”
    “I’m not loyal,” Roscoe said. “I’m a traitor.”
    “Of course you are. God should give the world more traitors like you.”
    When he drove into the office parking lot at the mill, Roscoe saw men already at work in the traffic manager’s office, so, rather than subject Veronica to their scrutiny, he parked at the
side entrance. They went briskly in past the security cubicle, where Roscoe saw Frank Maynard and two of his guards whispering—The word is out—and up the back stairs to Elisha’s
office. Joe Spivak sat by the door, guarding the integrity of the death room. Nothing had been taken away or added, but as Roscoe entered, the room became an antechamber where he sensed he had to
begin. Begin what? Not courting the widow. He might get to that. Might. This was something else, and he knew it wouldn’t easily be defined. He also knew he now could not quit the Party; and
he knew Elisha had known that would happen.
    Veronica walked to the dead Elisha and looked down at him, shaking her head no, no, no. “Oh Lord, Roscoe, it’s true.” And she crumpled in front of Elisha.
    Roscoe gestured to Joe Spivak to get out, then lifted Veronica into the large leather chair where Gladys had also sat to stare at her dead love. “Slow, now, Vee. Take it slow.”
    “He doesn’t even look a little bit sick,” Veronica said, her eyes wet again.
    “Maybe he wasn’t sick.”
    “He had to be.”
    She stood up and walked to Elisha, hiked her skirt and straddled his lap, ran her hands through his hair.
    “Were you sick, Elisha? How could you be that sick without my knowing it? You’re already a chunk of rubber.” She gave him a weeping kiss. “What went so wrong you had to
quit everything in such a hurry? You couldn’t wait to see your son come home from winning the war? Whatever it was we could’ve fixed it.” She lifted his left hand and studied it,
then took his diamond ring and gold watch from the dead finger and wrist. Lacking pockets, she put them inside her brassiere. She stared at Elisha, then kissed him and sat back. “Look at you.
Look what you’ve done to yourself. Bastard.” She slapped his face.
    “Veronica,” Roscoe said. “Get a grip.”
    He helped her stand and she tried to stop weeping.
    “I thought I knew him. He’s a dead stranger.”
    “Staying alive isn’t anybody’s obligation,” Roscoe said. “I’m betting he had a reason.”
    Veronica let Roscoe put his arms around her while she wept—spasmic, throaty crying. Roscoe held grief in his arms and knew he could die of happiness, a traitor, embracing his best
friend’s wife. Yes, it’s true, Elisha, old pal. You’re dead and we’re not. Then Veronica stabbed him in the heart with her breast, a wound that meant nothing to her. Sweet
Roscoe, comfort me, let me fail in your arms, hold me close, feel how soft I am. But this is all you get, and don’t think this counts. You’re a wonderful fellow, Roscoe. Don’t
crowd me.
    “It’s okay, Vee,” he said to her. “Let it out.”
    “Oh, Roscoe, Roscoe,” she said. “What is going on here?”
    “A temporary mystery. We’ll figure it out.”
    “I loved him so.”
    “Sure you did.”
    She raised her head off his shoulder, trying to stop crying, and he saw she was abashed by their embrace. What a surprise. She smiled and stepped back from him, walked to the desk, and picked up
the photo of Elisha, Roscoe, and herself in the winner’s circle with Pleasure Power the day he won the Travers at Saratoga.
    “I want to take this home,” she said.
    “I’ll get an envelope.”
    She picked up the photo of Alex in his army uniform. “We have to tell Alex,” she said.
    “We’ll call the army, have them cable him. I’ll do that.”
    Roscoe would do it all. And Alex would come home safely from the war to find that his father, not he, was the post-armistice casualty. Roscoe slid the Saratoga picture into a large envelope and
sealed its clasp. He walked