Whom Gods Destroy by Clifton Adams Page A

the steering wheel tightly enough to snap it in two.
    I drove between two brick pillars and up a graveled road that curved around the back of the house, and I thought sourly, The back door's the place for you, Foley. I parked near the back steps and got the stuff out from under the front seat. The back door opened then and a young, dull-eyed girl stood holding the door open for me as I came up the steps with my arms full.
    I put the stuff on the kitchen table and looked around. “You alone here?”
    She nodded suspiciously, as though she expected me to start making passes at her. The hell with her. I was breathing freely now, feeling a queer sort of excitement take hold of me. Her house, I thought. This is where she lives. I wandered through the big white kitchen and came into a richly carpeted dining room where a lot of stuff was laid out, all kind of nuts in little copper bowls and trays of tiny sandwiches. It was going to be a party, all right.
    “Look,” the girl said worriedly, “you can't go in there.
    “Missus Keating won't like it.”
    “What she doesn't know won't hurt her.” The house fascinated me, now that I knew Lola wasn't there. I went to the front room and stood there staring savagely at the richness of it, while the girl followed behind me, complaining and whining.
    “Shut up—and get out of here!”
    She got out. She scurried like a rabbit in loose leaves. It was the wrong thing to do and I knew it. She would tell Lola and Lola would tell Keating and finally the word would get back to Seaward and Sid and I'd be out of a job. I'd be out of everything. But right then I didn't give a damn. I don't know how much time passed before the front door opened and Lola came in. She stood there, faintly startled, a key in her hand.
    She said coldly, “What are you doing here?”
    I said nothing.
    “Cora,” she called, “come here this instant!” The girl came in from the kitchen. She had been crying. “What is this man doing here, Cora?” Lola demanded.
    The girl made a strangled sound, too scared to talk.
    I said tightly, “I brought the liquor you ordered from Sid.”
    “To the front room?”
    The rage broke then. The dam washed out. “No,” I said, “I brought it in the back door. That's right, isn't it? You wouldn't want the neighbors to see a Burk Street bootlegger coming in the front way, would you, Lola?”
    Her mouth turned down in a sneer and she wasn't beautiful at all. “I can see it's no use trying to be civil to you. Get out of my house.”
    “I'll get out,” I said, “but not until I'm damn good and ready.” It was funny, but I wasn't afraid of her then. In the back of my mind I knew that I was tearing everything down, destroying everything completely. But I was drunk with the knowledge that I could stand in front of her and look at her and not feel torn apart.
    “You were born in the gutter,” she said coldly, “and you'll live in the gutter all your life!” She laughed harshly. “You were going to college! You were going to amount to something! That's funny, it's really very funny!” She laughed again, but the laughter seemed forced, as though she wasn't quite sure of herself.
    “I guess it was pretty funny at that,” I said. “You thought it was funny when I first said it.”
    Her face seemed to drop and the laughter stopped. “You're sick,” she said. “Your brain is sick and twisted. No one but an insane person could keep a hate alive that long.”
    “You ought to know, Lola. I understand you. I've been afraid of you for a long time, but I'm not afraid any more. You know why, Lola? Because I'm going to break you before I'm through. I'm going to make you crawl, Lola.”
    She tried to laugh again but the sound died abruptly. “You are insane!” she said, and she sounded vaguely frightened. “By tomorrow you won't even have a job! I'll see to that. You won't even be allowed in Big Prairie!” She put her hands in front of her face, and I wasn't sure what was going