Slam the Big Door by John D. MacDonald Read Free Book Online Page B

getting worse. And I figure I’ve paid off any obligation. Tonight was the end. He knocked. I opened the door. He staggered in, fell down, threw up on my rug and passed out. He’d told me about you. So I phoned you. I told you what I was going to do if you didn’t feel like taking over. Want to look at him? If you haven’t seen him lately, it’ll be a shock. He looks like any skid row bum.”
     
    Troy woke up at eleven the next morning. He didn’t seem either surprised or grateful to see Mike, or particularly interested in the plan of going up to West Hudson. Mike could detect neither shame nor remorse. Just a dullness, an impenetrable apathy. Grady had donated some elderly but clean clothing to the cause. He had said it wasn’t necessary to have them back. After the hot bath and the permissible two ounces, Troy was steady enough to shave himself.
    Mike made a few futile attempts to start casual conversations on the way north, and then gave up. He did not take Troy home. He took him to the office of a friend who was a doctor. After the examination, Troy was taken directly to a rest home fifteen miles from town, a place which specialized in such problems. Three weeks later Mike brought him back to the house on Killian Street. Buttons received him politely, and with a measured amount of warmth.
    “When you want to talk,” Mike said. “I’ll listen. In the meantime you can stay here until you’re well.”
    “It’s a lot for you people to do.”
    “Don’t worry about that.”
    “One thing you may be glad to know. They told me out there. I’m not a genuine, honest-to-God alcoholic. This was more like a nervous breakdown. So you don’t have to lock up the liquor. I thought you’d like to know that. They said I can drink socially again, if I feel like it. But not this year. It won’t matter a damn to me to see other people drinking.”
    “Okay.”
    “I’ll stay out of your way as much as I can. Don’t figure on trying to pull me into social things. I’m not ready.”
    “All right.”
    “I’ll go to work soon as I can.”
    “Don’t try to rush it.”
    “Maybe you could do one more thing. I don’t know where the hell I stand. I don’t even know if the house was sold. That goes into the settlement. You could check with George Broman, 114 East Forty-third. He’s my lawyer and tax guy. It’ll be interesting to find out if there’s anything left.”
    “How about alimony?”
    “It’s being set up on the basis of a percentage of earnings. That’s lucky for me, and tough on Bunny. She’s got people to help her, though. She gets it until she marries again. And I’ve been wondering about mail, Mike. I didn’t…”
    “I fixed that up. They were saving a bunch of stuff at the hotel. It’s here now. I changed your mailing address to here. They didn’t want you getting mail out there. Do you want to see it now?”
    “No. Not now. I’ll look at it later on.”
     
    He slept a great deal in those first weeks, and as the spring days grew warmer he would sun himself in the backyard. Later he began to take long walks. Buttons took pride in putting the pounds back on him. He spoke little and seldom smiled, though he was not irritable or sullen. He was good with the boys. As his strength came back he began to do minor repairs around the house—fixing doors that stuck, ripping up and replacing asphalt tile in the store room. He was good with his hands, neat and quick.
    The divorce became final. George Broman ascertained that, after income tax refunds had come in, and after Bunny’s settlement, Troy Jamison had a balance of nearly thirteen thousand dollars. After it was transferred to a savings account at West Hudson National, Troy insisted, despite Mike’s protests, on paying the medical expenses Mike had incurred on his behalf.
    In late June of 1953, Mike and Buttons got a letter from Bunny, postmarked Colorado Springs.
     
    Dearest Ones,
    You may cluck and shake your heads wisely as my entire family