The House on Alexandrine

Chapter 17

EARLY SUNDAY EVENING, December 9, Magnolia B. McBride, fortytwo , was shot once in the chest with a .25 caliber pistol. She was pronounced dead at the scene, an apartment house she owned on the northwest side of the city. By her death she became the 700th homicide victim of 1973. The reasons for the shooting were unclear. Apparently there had been a quarrel about the possible eviction of a tenant. Witnesses told police that during the quarrel Mrs. McBride pushed her husband down a flight of stairs. Although a suspect was taken into custody, no name was released. In any case, the death of Mrs. McBride made Duane the winner of George's lottery. As winner he received forty-five dollars which was five dollars more than one month's rent for the room formerly belonging to Joe Gage. Since George was now acting caretaker, Duane gave him back the money which he otherwise would have had to borrow. If Joe Gage had not been murdered, Duane would not have won the lottery, which instead would have been won by Wencel on Monday. If Duane had not won the lottery, he might not have been able to move into Joe Gage's room. But if Joe Gage had not been murdered, there would have been no room for Duane to move into and he might have stayed with Isaac and Duncan. Monday afternoon Corbin had a disagreeable encounter with Ruth. He was walking down Second, coming home from the library, when he saw her a short distance ahead. He called and she turned and waited for him to catch up. It was five o'clock and almost dark. The four lanes of Second Avenue were crowded with rush hour traffic: a constant roaring, honking, tires squealing , the near sweet smell of exhaust. Ruth stood under a street lamp. It was snowing lightly and large flakes 190 T H E H O U S E O N A L E X A N D R I N E 1 9 1 stuck to her pea jacket. A long red scarf was looped around her neck and over her head. Corbin kissed her cheek and she took his arm. He felt that he hadn't seen her for months. He missed her and kissing her cheek had given him a little rush of pleasure. "What've you been doing?" "I was over at the art department seeing about courses." "Want to get a beer?" "Sure." They went into the Bronx Bar which was nearly empty. A couple of students were playing pool and the only sound came from the click of the balls. They sat at the bar; Corbin ordered two drafts. In front of them were rows of bottles and behind them was a large mirror. Their reflections were broken by the bottles. Corbin watched Ruth's eye tucked behind a bottle of Jack Daniels. It was serious again. "Duane says you're writing a book about him." Corbin put his elbows on the bar. Ruth had turned to face him. "It's not really about him and it's not really a book. I told you about my journal. This is just a bigger journal and much of it takes place around Duane. Does he mind?" Ruth made a snorting noise. "No, he was proud. Is it a book or isn't it?" "It's my journal. You know the trouble I've had with my writing. Now I'm only writing about the past three months, being completely objective about it." "You can't be completely objective." Ruth drank some beer. A strand of hair fell across her eyes and she pushed it away. "You're using him," she said. "You're painting him. What's the difference? All I'm doing is recording an event." Corbin thought how a few minutes before he had been eager to be with Ruth. Their conversation depressed him. "He's posing for me and I'm paying him for it. It's not the same. You're a participant. You can't be just an observer. Duane needs friends now. The house is full of little pressure groups, each trying to get him to do something. And none of it has anything to do with Duane. They're just trying to make themselves feel better. And you, instead of helping, you're pulling back and watching. . . ." Tuesday evening there was a small meeting to decide about Duane. It took place in George...