Night Freight

"Well, I ought to be getting on home."

"I wonder if I should call the police."

"I wouldn't do that if I were you, Jerry."

"No?"

"Wouldn't be a good idea."

"Hot day like this, maybe I—"

"Jerry!" Verna's voice, from inside the house. Loud and demanding, but with a whiny note underneath. "How many times do I have to ask you to come in here and help me with supper? The potatoes need peeling."

"Damn," Jerry said.

Sweat had begun to run on me; I mopped my face with my handkerchief. "If you feel like it," I said, "we can have that beer later on."

"Sure, okay."

"I'll be in the yard after supper. Come over anytime."

His head wobbled again, up and down this time. Then he stood, wincing on account of his back, and shuffled into his house, and I walked back across and into mine. Mary Ellen was in the kitchen, cutting up something small and green by the sink. Cilantro, from the smell of it.

"I saw you through the window," she said. "What were you talking to Jerry about?"

"Three guesses."

"Oh, Lord. I suppose he killed Verna again."

"Yep."

"Where and how this time?"

"In the kitchen. With his service pistol."

"That man. Three times now, or is it four?"

"Four."

"Other people have nice normal neighbors. We have to have a crazy person living next door."

"Jerry's harmless, you know that. He was as normal as anybody before he fell off that roof."

"Harmless," Mary Ellen said. "Famous last words."

I went over and kissed her neck. Damp, but it still tasted pretty good. "What're you making there?"

"Ceviche."

"What's ceviche?"

"Cold fish soup. Mexican style."

"Sounds awful."

"It isn't. You've had it before."

"Did I like it?"

"You loved it."

"Sounds wonderful, then. I'm going to have a beer. You want one?"

"I don't think so." Pretty soon she said, "He really ought to see somebody."

"Who?"

"Jerry."

"See who? You mean a head doctor?"

"Yes. Before he really does do something to Verna."

"Come on, honey. Jerry can't even bring himself to step on a bug. And Verna's enough to drive any man a little crazy. Either she's mired in one of her funks or on a rampage about something or other. And she's always telling him how worthless and lazy she thinks he is."

"She has a point," Mary Ellen said. "All he does all day is sit around drinking beer and staring at the tube."

"Well, with his back the way it is—"

"His back doesn't seem to bother him when he decides to work in his garden."

"Hey, I thought you liked Jerry."

"I do like Jerry. It's just that I can see Verna's side, the woman's side. He was no ball of fire before the accident, and he's never let her have children—"

"That's her story. He says he's sterile."

"Well, whatever. I still say she has some justification for being moody and short-tempered, especially in this heat."

"I suppose."

"Anyhow," Mary Ellen said, "her moods don't give Jerry the right to keep pretending he's killed her. And I don't care how harmless he seems to be, he could snap someday. People who have violent fantasies often do. Every day you read about something like that in the papers or see it on the TV news."

"'Violent fantasies' is too strong a term in Jerry's case."

"What else would you call them?"

"He doesn't sit around all day thinking about killing Verna. I got that much out of him after he scared the hell out of me the first time. They have a fight and he goes out on the porch and sulks and that's when he imagines her dead. And only once in a while. It's more like . . . wishful thinking."

"Even so, it's not healthy and it's potentially dangerous. I wonder if Verna knows."

"Probably not, or she'd be making his life even more miserable. We can hear most of what she yells at him all the way over here as it is."

"Somebody ought to tell her."

"You're not thinking of doing it? You don't even like the woman." Which was true. Jerry and I were friendly enough, to the point of going fishing together a few times, but the four of us had never done couples things. Verna wasn't interested.

Didn't seem to want much to do with Mary Ellen or me. Or anyone else, for that matter, except a couple of old woman friends.

"I might go over and talk to her," Mary Ellen said. "Express concern about Jerry's behavior, if nothing more."

"I think it'd be a mistake."

"Do you? Well, you're probably right."

"So you're going to do it anyway."

"Not necessarily. I'll have to think about it."

Mary Ellen went over to talk to Verna two days later. It was a Saturday and Jerry'd gone off somewhere in their car. I was on the front porch fixing a loose shutter when she left, and still there and still fixing when she came back less than ten minutes later.

"That was fast," I said.

"She didn't want to talk to me." Mary Ellen looked and sounded miffed. "She was barely even civil."

"Did you tell her about Jerry's wishful thinking?"

"No. I didn't have a chance."

"What did you say to her?"

"Hardly anything except that we were concerned about Jerry."

"We," I said. "As in me too."

"Yes, we. She shut me off right there. As much as told me to mind my own business."

"Well?" I said gently.

"Oh, all right, maybe we should. It's her life, after all. And it'll be as much her fault as Jerry's if he suddenly decides to make his wish come true."

Jerry killed Verna three more times in July. Kitchen again, their bedroom, the backyard. Tenderizing mallet, clock radio, manual strangulation—so I guess he'd decided a gun wasn't the best way after all. He seemed to grow more and more morose as the summer wore on, while Verna grew more and more sullen and contentious. The heat wave we were suffering through didn't help matters any. The temperatures were up around one hundred degrees half the days that month and everybody was bothered in one way or another.

Jerry came over one evening in early August while Mary Ellen and I were having fruit salad under the big elm in our yard. He had a six-pack under one arm and a look on his face that was half hunted, half depressed.

"Verna's on another rampage," he said. "I had to get out of there. Okay if I sit with you folks for a while?"

"Pull up a chair," I said. At least he wasn't going to tell us he'd killed her again.

Mary Ellen asked him if he'd like some fruit salad, and he said no, he guessed fruit and yogurt wouldn't mix with beer. He opened a can and drank half of it at a gulp. It wasn't his first of the day by any means.

"I don't know how much more of that woman I can take," he said.

"That bad, huh?"

"That bad. Morning, noon, and night—she never gives me a minute's peace anymore."

Mary Ellen said, "Well, there's a simple solution, Jerry."

"Divorce? She won't give me one. Says she'll fight it if I file, take me for everything she can if it goes through."