“I can’t.” She was holding her sides, as though her ribs were cracking. Her laughter climbed to a screaming pitch.
Kerrigan moved toward her, his eyes burning, his teeth grinding. But suddenly he stopped short, staring past Bella, seeing something that caused him to stiffen. His eyes were aiming at a small mirror on the wall and he saw his carefully combed hair and the Sunday suit.
The mocking laughter jabbed at him like hot needles inserted in his brain. But he heard it, the jeering sound wasn’t coming from Bella. He told himself it came from the mirror.
He turned away and hurried out of the kitchen. The laughter followed him down the hall, through the parlor, and went on jabbing at him as he opened the front door and walked out of the house.
10
He walked aimlessly on Vernon, crossing the street several times for no good reason at all. On Wharf Street he turned around and went back on Vernon all the way to Eleventh, then walked eleven blocks back to Wharf, and turned around again. It didn’t occur to him how much ground he was covering, how many hours it was taking. The only definite feeling he had was the weight of the camera in his jacket pocket.
The sky was dark now. He continued to walk back and forth along Vernon Street and finally he stood outside a store window, staring at the face of a clock that read eleven-forty. He scowled at the clock and asked himself what in hell he was going to do with the camera.
He turned away from the store window and resumed walking along Vernon. The heat-weary citizens were grouped on doorsteps, the perspiration gleaming on their faces. As Kerrigan walked past, they stared at him in wonder, seeing the buttoned collar and the necktie and the heavy worsted jacket and trousers. They shook their heads.
But although he wasn’t thinking about it, the sticky heat seeped into his body and he moved with increasing difficulty. His mouth and throat were aching for a cold drink. He saw the light in the window of Dugan’s Den, and it occurred to him that he could use a few beers.
Entering the taproom, he heard the squeaky tune that Dugan hummed off key. There were three customers at the bar, a couple of hags with a lot of rouge on their faces and an ageless humpbacked derelict bent low over a glass of wine. The hags were glaring at Dugan, who had his arms folded and his eyes half closed and was concentrating on the music that came from his lips.