Reprisal

EIGHT

Everett Sanders stepped off the bus from the campus at his usual stop and walked the three and a half blocks home. Along the way he picked up his five white, short-sleeved shirts—boxed, no starch—from the cleaners. He owned ten such work shirts, kept five at home and five in the cleaners at all times. He made his usual stop before the front window of Raftery's Tavern and peered inside at the people gathered there in the darkness to drink away the afternoon and the rest of the evening. He watched for exactly one minute, then continued on to the Kensington Arms, a five-story brick apartment house that had been built in the twenties and somehow had managed to survive the Sun Belt's explosion of new construction.

He had the day's mail arranged in proper order by the time he reached his three-room apartment on the third floor: the magazines and mail-order catalogs on the bottom, then the second- and third-class mail, then the first-class envelopes. Always the first-class mail on top. That was the way it was done. He just wished the mailman would put it into his box that way.

Ev placed the mail in a neat pile where he always placed it: on the table next to his La-Z-Boy lounger, then made his way to the kitchenette. The apartment was small but he saw no sense in moving to a bigger place. What would he do with the extra room? It would only mean more to clean. He never had company, so what would be the point? This efficiency was fine for him.

He spotted a smudge of dust on the glossy surface of the tiny dining table as he passed and pulled out his handkerchief to buff it away. He glanced around the living areas. Everything was in order, everything clean and exactly where it should be. The television was over by the sofa and lounger in the living room; the computer terminal was dark and dumb on the desk in the dining area. The plaster walls were bare. He kept telling himself he should get something to hang on them, but every time he went to look at paintings he couldn't find anything that appealed to him. The only picture he had was an old photograph of his ex-wife that he kept on the night table.

In the kitchenette Ev measured out exactly half a cup of unsalted, dry-roasted peanuts into a paper cup. He returned with this to the lounger. This week's novel was Hawaii, a fat one. He'd have to get to today's quota of pages immediately after dinner. He nibbled on the peanuts one at a time as he began opening the mail. First class first, of course.

The invitation to Lisl's party surprised him, and pleased him to no end. What a sweet woman she was to include him in her plans. He was touched. He had a warm feeling for Lisl, and although her intention to prepare a paper for the Palo Alto conference was a direct challenge to his own bid for tenure, it did not alter his feelings for her. She had every right to go for it. And after what he'd overcome in the past, Everett was hardly afraid of a challenge, especially from a respected colleague like Lisl.

But he'd have to turn down her invitation. A party of that sort was out of the question.

He noted that the address was not Lisl's but a place in that exclusive new development, Parkview. Probably belonged to that Rafe Losmara she had been seeing.

Poor Lisl. She no doubt thought she was being so discreet and low-key, but her affair with that rich graduate student was the talk of the department.

Ev wondered what this Rafe Losmara saw in her. He too was reputed to possess a brilliant mind, perhaps the equal of Lisl's, but he was almost ten years her junior. Why was he pursuing an older woman? Lisl couldn't help him academically—she was in a different department than he. So what was his game?

None of my business, he told himself.

And perhaps he wasn't being fair to Lisl. She was an attractive woman—at least Ev had always found her so—and even more attractive now that she was slimming down. There was no reason why she shouldn't have many men chasing after her.

Which made the pool among the other members of the math department all the more offensive. When they'd approached him to see if he wanted to place a wager on how long Lisl's romance would last, he'd coldly dismissed them. He should have given them hell, should have gone to LisI with it, but he lacked the nerve, and hadn't the heart to bring her hurtful news.

He hoped Lisl and this Losmara fellow stayed together for a long time, just to show up the fools in the department.

But what of that groundskeeper? Ev still saw Lisl taking lunch with him. He wondered how he felt about her relationship with Losmara.

Will Ryerson put off opening the envelope. He knew what it was. He dropped it on the kitchen counter and wandered the main room of the house he'd been renting for the past three years. The tiny ranch was old and damp; built on a concrete slab but that hadn't stopped the termites from establishing themselves in the walls. He swore there were some nights when he cquld lie awake in the silent darkness and hear them chewing. The house was situated on a large wooded lot in the center of a dense stand of oaks. He never had to go outside to know when fall arrived—the acorns raining on his roof heralded the return of cool weather.

Nothing here belonged to Will but the food, the linens, and the Macintosh on the dining-room table. The house came furnished. And decorated, so to speak. The previous renter had run a roadside stand specializing in velvet paintings. According to the landlord, that tenant had fallen behind in his rent and had simply disappeared one night, leaving behind some of his stock. The landlord had taken a few of the choicer works for himself and had hung the rest in the little ranch, literally covering the walls with them. Everywhere Will turned he faced yards of black velvet smeared with garish colors—yellow lions, orange-striped tigers, sad-eyed clowns, purple-white rearing stallions, and multiple, idealized studies of good old Elvis—the later Elvis, the glitter-sprinkled, high-collared, white-jumpsuited King of Rock V Roll.

Will had found the collection unsettling when he'd first moved in, but he'd become used to them over the years. Lately he'd found himself actually growing fond of one or two. That worried him.

Will picked up the envelope again and stared at it without opening it.

The party.

Lisl talked about little else these days. And she never let up on pestering him to come. She saw it as her big chance to get him together with Rafe Losmara. Rafe, Rafe, Rafe. Will was tired of hearing about him. In a way, he wanted very much to meet the man who had stolen Lisl's heart so completely. He was curious as to what kind of man—younger man, no less—could engender that level of infatuation in such an intelligent woman. And in another way he dreaded the meeting, fearing he'd discover that Rafe Losmara had feet of clay.

No use in putting it off. He tore open the envelope.

There it was. After all his refusals she'd gone ahead and invited him anyway. A holiday party, from eight till whenever, the Saturday before Christmas. At Rafe's Parkview condo.

It sounded nice. Too bad he couldn't go. Not only would he feel out of place—a laborer mingling with the professors—but there'd be telephones there.

And then he saw the inscription at the bottom of the inside page.

Will—

Please come. I don't have many friends, but I want them all

at the party. And it won't be a party at all if you're not there.

Please?

Love, List

Guilt. How could he say no to that? He hated the thought of letting her down, but he couldn't go. It was impossible. Or was it? Maybe there was a way. He'd have to think on it…