The Landlord. Kristin Hunter

don’t worry, I’ll look out for him. I have to. It’s in the cards.”

      “You may even have to collect his rents for him. Oh, I know it’s a lot to ask, Miss Perkins. Especially of a person who’s a great star like you. But do try to let him think he’s done it himself.”

      Elgar turned his back on the stairs. Obviously he was the last person they wanted to see at the moment. Well, the feelings at the moment were mutual. His empty apartment suddenly appealed, because there he could be alone in front of the mirror, to check the breadth of the shoulders, the girth of the biceps, the hard, steely glint in the clear blue eyes, and learn, maybe, what it was that the boy had seen in him. Then fall asleep, hugging the knowledge to himself like a comforting old toy that had been lost for years and was suddenly found again.

      Girlish giggles rained down on Elgar; giggles at his expense, no doubt. The place sounded like a witches’ dormitory at midnight.

      Elgar restrained a last strong urge to charge upstairs, enraged sacred white bull, with the news of who was going to be the boss around here. News of whose house it was, after all.

      No, he told himself as he strode outside, he would maintain manly silence. Hereafter he would be contained, and a gentleman. Firm. And when things began to happen around here, as they surely would starting tomorrow, he would stand aside nobly and let them think they had done it themselves.

       5

      Aliquid, cooling breeze kissed Elgar awake from his sound sleep in tumbled, soiled sheets. The first morning of September. End of summer’s slumming. Away with languors and odors. Up then, and singing, even though the singing be hopelessly off key.

      Elgar obeyed, leaping into the shower with several appalling bars of:

      H,

      A,

      Double r-a,

      G-i-n spells Harrigan.

      —Or does it? he wondered as he toweled briskly.

      Proud of all the Scottish blood that’s in me,

      Divil nor man can say a word agin me.

      To a tune strangely resembling “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow.” Mothaw tried to make me musical. Lord, how she tried. An effort of a massiveness equaled only by her monumental failure.

      Out again, scrubbed and shining, to select a tie. Wrinkling the fine, sensitive, aristocratic nose against yon paper bag with aromatic contents, waiting patiently by the door. Remembering to give thanks for small favors, such as one remaining clean set of underwear.

      He put on his brightest blue tie, to stabilize his sea-change eyes. His eyes, like everything about Elgar, were fluid, desperately in need of anchors. He preferred them sky-blue for happiness, though wore green ties on mean days, gray ones on hopelessly bleak days.

      On the dresser beside the tie clip (stainless steel, fifty-nine cents, Mothaw’s gold gift—one long lost) lay the four rent books, unopened and uninscribed except for the four hopeful names on their covers.

      This was the day he meant to write in each of them, Received of for one month’s rent payable in advance the sum of, and his signature. (And show good cause, Mr. Copee, why it should not be written in your blood.) On second thought, a green tie might be the best choice.

      Rent books and trusty Waterman tucked in breast pocket, Elgar swung out into the street and across to the air-conditioned igloo where he breakfasted. The D-R’s chilly interior featured a white formica counter, booths and stools with white plastic cushions, all surfaces frosty-painted and disinfected. And Lanie, capably poised behind the counter in uniform like a tall Supervisor of Nurses.

      Might as well let her know immediately that the patient had recovered. “Scramble two light,” he said. “Extra cream in the coffee.”

      Her eyelids, with lavender circles above and below, parted wanly. That must have been some all-night songfest and gabfest. “Don’t you want toast, Elgar?”

      “No. Watching the old waistline,” he said, and patted his iron middle.

      Not one to give up easily, Lanie slammed a large orange juice down in front of him. “What was the big fat idea, running out on me last night?”

      Sipping, he said, “Oh, you seemed to be having fun. I’m no music lover. Besides, I had to get up early this morning.”

      “Projects?”

      “The project. On Poplar Street.”

      “Oh. In that case you’d better have some brandy in the coffee,” Lanie prescribed gravely, and reached under the counter for the giant battered mail-pouch she called a handbag. Inside he knew was a cunning little flask, dark-blue glass and filigree silver.

      He held up a warning hand. “No, thanks. Fortification will not be necessary.”

      “Whatever you say, Elgar.” As she drew his coffee, steam from the urn flushed her cheeks prettily. “What’s holding up those scrambled eggs light, Lucy? Are you laying them, or what?” With a distracted pushing back of her steamed and discouraged hair, forgetting that she had never given the order. Her partner looked hurt, but instantly put butter on the grill and began joyous beatings in a bowl.

      “I tried to win Marge over to your side, Elgar. I used every argument I know. But I can’t promise you she’ll do anything for you. She’s had a rough time lately. All of your tenants have had rough times.”

      “Don’t you think,” he said, “there may be another possibility, one you have not yet considered, Lanie? That I, myself, may be equal to the problems involved?”

      “I think,” she said, “you were a damned fool to get involved.”

      Those words, precisely, were Levin’s on the phone two hours later.

      “Yes, I said a damned fool. That was what I said, Elgar. Check. What was the matter with those municipal bonds I told you about last week? What, Elgar, did you find so repulsive about Allied Preferred? And if you were determined, really determined, to get into real estate I could have gotten you mortgages. Six per cent, guaranteed.”

      It’s hopeless, Levin, Elgar thought. I could shout at you all day, still you’d never understand my needs. Aloud he said, “Levin, a mortgage can’t talk to you.”

      “It can’t throw a spear at you, either. Check? Or did I misunderstand you when you said that was what happened this morning?”

      “No,” Elgar said. “No, you did not misunderstand me. No, Levin, your hearing checks out one hundred per cent accurate. Perfect.” He hung up and left the glass cubicle, fiendish fishbowl making private agonies public, to sit on the curb, supporting heavy head in hopeless hands.

      Fanny, more tempting than ever in tight pink lace, had met him at the door, hair soft and sweet, voice crooning to match, promising reason. She had, she said, a job. And would get paid the following Thursday. The Cumbersons, she continued, would get their pension check at the end of the week, on Thursday or Friday. It was only necessary to catch the old man before he went out drinking on Friday night. And he was not to believe any of Professor DuBois’ stories—that man had loads of money, especially on Sundays. His habit being to take up collections in churches all over town to further the work of higher learning, he would hit at least ten churches between the eleven A.M. tolling for services and the dismissal of Bible classes at three, clearing fifty dollars easy. As for Miss Marge, she would be good for her rent next Wednesday. Not tomorrow but a week from tomorrow, every other Wednesday, that was when the lady she worked for got paid.

      “So all you have to do, Landlord, is come back Friday, Sunday, next Wednesday and next Thursday.”

      “But this is Tuesday!” he’d howled. “What the hell am I suppose to do today?”

      Her rather grotesque suggestion elicited a reply in kind from Elgar.