Unknown, p.12
Unknown, page 12
"I don't understand. You mean he had free choice? Any place he wanted?"
"That's right. And he wanted this." He shrugged." Who wouldn't?
Just look around. I don't think George had ever seen the inside of this place, though, till he watched the state marshal's break down the door.
You see, the guy in here wouldn't get out. A bit of a crackpot, they say."
"And once George was in, you mean-"
"Exactly. They announced the highway wouldn't go through after all. And by then it was too late."
"But how about the guy they'd kicked out? Couldn't he sue, for Chrissake? I mean, he had a pretty good case for himself, and…
Hell! He could bring'em all to court for a stunt like that."
"Nope, not where he is now. I told you he was a loony, didn't I?"
"You mean "Uh-huh. They had him put away." Milton grinned." Oh, that part was all aboveboard, nothing funny about that. From what I hear, he was a real straitjacket case. Kicked like a wild man when they took him away, biting and spitting… And calling for his son to come back and help him. 'Petey,' he kept screaming, 'Petey, Petey,' over and over. At least that's what it sounded like. I guess he thought his son would come to his rescue. Onl"
"Only what?"
"Only he didn't have a son."
"Tsk tsk tsk. Poor guy."
"Yeah, well, that's what I thought. But Cipriano says he wasn't too charming a character. He said the marshals had to literally hold their noses when they broke down the door, that's how bad it was. Like the lion house at the zoo, he said. Maybe the guy had pets and never cleaned up after them. Cost George a fortune to have the place fixed up." He stared into his drink; the ice had shrunk and lost its shape, floating on the surface like a jellyfish, evolution in reverse." Still, he made a killing on this deal. He bought the house from the state, and got it for next to nothing."
"How about the other people they moved out? They put up a stink, too?"
"That supposed to be a pun?"
Herb guffawed." Never thought of that!"
"You don't understand-they never had to move anybody else.
They just held off till George was home free, and then Brodsky announced the cutback. The notices were rescinded, and everybody was happy.
"Oh, I get it." Herb looked disappointed." So it's too late now, huh?"
"Too late for what?"
"To pick up a place like this for myself."
"R.U.N. Run?"
The man on the bed nodded. His foot tapped once, twice, and three times; once, twice, and five times.
"Run away."
The man on the bed nodded.
Irene Crystal put her hand on Phyllis's." Excuse me," she whispered,
"we're going now, I just wanted to say good-bye."
Phyllis left Cissy to fend for herself." Oh, what a shame!" she cried automatically." Can't you stay just a little longer? It's so early yet."
"I'd love to, dear, believe me. But Jack's folks are coming over tomorrow morning, and if I know them"-she rolled her eyes comicolly-"they'll be ringing the bell at nine."
Phyllis kept Irene talking while ushering her toward the coat closet, anxious lest the sight of one early departure produce a mass exodus among the others." Well, I certainly do hope you'll find the time to come out again real soon. It's not as far as it looks, really, once you know the way."
"Oh, no, honestly, it wasn't a bad trip at all." Jack was already standing by the coat closet. Phyllis looked nervously at the other guests." It's just that his folks are coming down, otherwise we'd never think of leaving so soon."
Jack leaned toward her." I wanted to thank George," he said solemnly, a small boy remembering his manners, "but he was in the bathroom. You will thank him for me, won't you?"
"God, is he in there again?" Phyllis grimaced." Yes, of course I will."
"Tell him we think it's just the most fantastic place we've ever seen.
The find of a lifetime."
A few of the people at the bar had noticed them. Fred Weingast glanced at his watch." Yes, of course I will." Phyllis wished the two would hurry up and leave quietly.
"I'm still amazed about what you said upstairs."
"Pardon me?"
"Upstairs," Irene went on." In your bedroom. About the man before you living here all alone."
Phyllis watched Weingast out of the corner of her eye." Quite a character, wasn't he?"
" But why a nursery?"
"What? Oh, the nursery! Well, we tried to keep things the way we found them. It was like that when we came. Maybe we'll turn it into another guest room." She flashed a big grin at the Crystals." That way you'll be able to come more often, without "No," Irene persisted, "I mean, it was already here when you moved in, right? But you said that man never had any children."
Damn it! Now Arthur Faschman was looking at his watch." I'm sure I don't know," she said hurriedly." I guess it was here when he moved in."
"With all those toys? A lot of them looked used."
"Maybe he played with them himself. I told you he was crazy."
"Honey, we're going to have a long drive as it is," said Jack." I don't want to get back too late." He moved into the fro oning his overcoat.
Phyllis held the door open for them." Whew! These November nights are freezing out here! It's the open fields, George says-no wind resistance." She backed away from the blast of cold air. Then, as if by rote: "Just make sure you drive carefully and get home safe."
Irene smiled." I only allowed him two drinks all night." She kissed Phyllis on the cheek." Bye-bye, dear, and thanks."
"Be sure to thank George for us," said Jack as the door was closing.
"So you think you're gonna run away, huh?" The man on the bed shook his head "No, sir! You ain't going nowhere, buster. Last time an inmate got out, we caught up with him in less than twelve hours, and that was before we installed the new aldrin system. Uh-uh, no way!"
The man on the bed shook his head, more violently this time; his mouth twisted into a snarl.
"I get it,. you want me to run away?"
More violently still. Then, quickly.- eight, two, and one; one and four .
H.U.N.G.R.Y
The voices from the living room were lost in the twistings of the corridor, and the library stood dark and deserted. The door had been left open, but Ellie lingered in the hall, reluctant to enter. Running her hand along the inside of the doorway and finding no switch, she inched toward one of the heavy floor lamps that stood beside a desk, the two forms outlined by moonlight. The rug felt thick and silent beneath her feet, like animal fur. There was something about the room that made one tiptoe, lest some presence be disturbed.
The lamp's sudden glare dazzled her, and in the instant before blindness she saw something rise from the desktop. A cry came from them both, but the other was first to speak.
"Who…? Uh-oh, what time is it?"
"Doris! God, you gave me a fright! Who were you hiding from?"
"Sorry, I must have fallen asleep. I was in the middle of this story"-she indicated the book that lay open on the desk'and I thought I'd take a little nap. It's such a long trip home, and if I know Sid he'll be in no condition to drive." She rubbed her eyes." He's been looking for me?"
"I'm sorry to say you haven't even been missed."
"Why, what time is it?"
"Not yet eleven, I think."
"Well that's a relief. Still early, then. Sorry I scared you. I probably shouldn't have turned off the light."
" What were you reading?"
She slid the book toward her." It's a translation of one in the living room. A children's book, I think. I'm amazed he'd buy two copies."
"I ather you were using it as a pillow."
Doris smiled." Yes, I- Oh my gosh, did I get print all over my cheek?"
She tilted her face in the light for the other's inspection.
"This makeup picks up more dirt and soot, especially in the city…
"You're-okay. You may have smeared that picture a bit, though."
She pointed to a small woodcut in the center of the left-hand page.
"Good Lord, what is it?"
"Isn't he cute? He's called the Little Devil." She flipped back toward the beginning of the story." See, the farmer plants this bean, and then he waters it every day"-she indicated the illustrations"and when autumn comes, and harvest time, there he is, growing right out of the ground."
Ellie wrinkled up her nose." Precious."
George snapped off the bathroom light and walked down the hall to the small door at the end. When he opened it a rush of chill air settled around him; climbing the steep wooden stairs, he made a mental note, for the dozenth time, to see about having the attic insulated. Otherwise they'd simply have to keep the door locked all winter.
Upstairs his breath turned to mist, but the cold sobered him; it came in pleasant contrast to the stuffy air below. Anyway, he'd only stay up here for a minute or two, just long enough to see if the memories matched.
He picked his way through the piles of magazines, some neatly bound with twine, the result of their housecleaning, others strewn about the floor.
The junk had accumulated here at the top of the house like debris left after a flood. A shape in the corner caught his eye, something pink and vulnerable-the mannequin, with its ravaged head, lying pressed into the crevice where sloping roof met floorboards. Turning away toward the metal cabinets against the far wall, he felt uneasy knowing it was behind him. Someone had removed the old blanket he'd thrown over it, Herb or one of the others. He thought briefly of searching for another cloth, perhaps some dusty tarpaulin, but the cold had seeped through his thin cotton shirt and added to his growing sense of urgency. Outside a wind stirred the roof beams.
His way to the cabinets was blocked by the dilapidated wreck of a bureau and, propped against it, the shell of a medicine chest, its door sagging open, the mirror somehow intact. He avoided looking at his image as he stepped past it: an old fear, resurrected in the faint attic light, to see some other face looking back at him. Straining, he shoved the bureau aside and pulled on the door nearest him; it yielded grudgingly, metal grating on metal. Within, a rack was hung with children's clothes; others lay crumpled on the metal floor, gathering dust. All were wrinkled, as if stored here after having been soiled, and like a gym locker, the cabinet reeked of old sweat. He let the door hang open.
The next was lined with deep shelves, empty but for a few rusted tools that had rolled backward into the darkness, and the door to the third had been torn from its hinges; bent double, it was shoved lengthwise into the cabinet, leaving one jagged end that stuck out. The door on the end swung open more easily, but stopped part way, blocked by the bureau; he tugged, jostling the cabinet slightly, but it held fast. He stepped around the bureau and peered inside.
It was as he remembered it. The jars rattled against the metal as if responding to the chill, their liquid insides sloshing rhythmically. In the front row small wrinkled things floated serenely in formaldehyde, fetuses of dog and pig and man, their bulbous eyes closed as if in reverie, with only the labels to tell them apart. He shoved his hip against the bureau; the door opened a few inches more and the slash of light grew wider.
Reaching into the darkness, he succeeded in shoving one of the ja rs to the side. Below an adhesive labeled "Pig" a huddled figure bobbed up and down. The opening was still too narrow, the jar too big to remove, but in the space behind it he could make out a second row of jars.
Pulling one to the front, into a stray beam of light that passed through a crack in the door, he wiped away the thin film of dust that obscured its contents. The tape read "PD #14" in black ballpoint.
Regretting that he'd never found out just what those letters stood for, he peeled the tape aside to get a closer look.
Yes, the memories matched. It was just like the thing on the card.
But the decomposition was worse than he'd remembered, worse than in the other specimens, as if the thing had shrunk and lost shape. Half buried in sediment, the small gray lump rested on the bottom, turning lazily in the cloudy liquid. Once, on his first time here, he'd been tempted to scrape aside the wax that sealed the top, to unscrew the lid 110 and pour the contents down the toilet like a piece of bad meat. But tonight he understood, if only from the faint odor that hung about the shelves, how easily the smell would sicken him. He slid it back into place, between jars labeled "PD #13" and "PD #15," where it clinked against a third row-and there was still another row behind that. The shelves were deep. There were twenty-two jars in all, he knew, and the specimens seemed to grow progressively larger with each number; he remembered one jar on the bottom, hidden way in. the back, nearly filled with something whose rotting flesh hung off it in ribbons. It had been too unpleasant to look at closely.
He closed the cabinet and picked his way back to the stairs, stumbling once on the tiny arm or leg of some long-discarded doll. Descending the stairs, he wondered how much it would cost to have the whole place cleaned out. In some ways this house had proved more expensive than he'd bargained for.
The iron railing felt thin and cold in his grip, and gave slightly when he leaned on it; a strong man might easily have yanked it free.
The repairs an old house required… he wished he were handier at such tasks. Once, long ago, he'd had the necessary skills, and had enjoyed working with his hands. He'd been a schoolboy then; the world had contained fewer secrets. Biology had been his special love; he had even dreamed, once, of medical school. How much he'd forgotten since then, and how mystifying the world had become.
Perhaps he could find a doctor in the area, some country G.P. he could trust. He'd have a lot of questions for him: about things that floated silently in jars, and what they fed upon. And how big they could grow.
"Oh, El, you're just an old fogey. Don't you like fairy tales?"
Doris pointed to the woodcut." See? The farmer dresses him up in a little suit, and tucks him in at night, and he has himself a little friend."
" I don't think I'd want that thing for a friend."
"Well, that's the whole point. That's why he's called the Little Devil.
He's supposed to help the farmer tend the garden and clean the house, but he just causes mischief and eats up whatever's lying around.
Including a few of the neighbors."
Ellie shrugged." I'm afraid I don't approve of fairy tales, at least not for very young children. They're really quite frightening, and so many of them are unnecessarily violent, don't you think? Our two grew up quite nicely without them, thank God." She paused, then added, "Not that a steady diet of the Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew is so much better, of course." ill "Oh, these stories wouldn't frighten anyone. Iley're all told with tongue in cheek. Typically French."
"French, huh? That reminds me-that's what I came in for, something French. What's this book called?" She turned to the title page, Folk Tales from Provenge. Hmm, no author listed, I see. How about the story?"
"None there, either. All I know is, it's called, "The Little Devil." I don't know what the title is in French." She closed the a thump; the sound seemed excessively loud in so silent a room.
The attic door slammed loudly; he hadn't counted on the wind pulling it closed. Bathed in the warmth of the hall, he turned the corner, and froze involuntarily at the figure in the doorway-though his brain had long since identified it.
" Sorry, Walt. I wake you?"
Walter stumbled back to the bed, his eyes puffy and half shut.
Creases from the quilt were etched into the side of his face." Jesus," he muttered, a slackness still about his lips, "it's a good thing you did.
I was having one hell of a nightmare."
George followed him into the room and stood awkwardly by the bed; he wished that Walter had picked somewhere else to sleep. He had left a sour, liquory smell in the room.
"Boy, it'll take me a while to get over this one. It seemed so goddamned real."
George smiled." They all do, that's the point."
The other was not comforted." I can still picture the whole thing.
It was night, I remember-"
"Are you sure you want to talk about it? You'll forget faster if you put it out of your mind." He was bored by other people's dreams.
"No, man, you've got it backwards. You're supposed to talk about your nightmares. Helps you get rid of em." Walter shook his head and eased himself back on the quilt, the bedsprings twanging with each shift of his body." It was at night, you see, but early, just after the sun had gone down-don't ask me how I know -and I was driving home.
The countryside was exactly like it is around here."
"Here? You mean this part of the state?"
"Yeah. Only it was around seven at night, a few hours ago, and Joyce wasn't with me. I was alone in the car, and I wanted to get home. And somehow-you know how it is in dreams-I knew I'd lost my way. All the roads began looking the same, and I remember being very conscious of the fact that it was getting darker and darker all the time, and that if it got too dark I'd never make it. I was driving on this road that led through a tobacco field, just like the one we passed tonight-"
"Right, it's a big crop around here. We've got plantations just down the road."
"Yeah, crazy-looking things, laid out so flat and regular… But I could barely see the land. It was dark now, except for a little glow in the sky, and I was driving very, very slowly, trying to find my way.
You know, kind of following the beams of my headlights… And then way off in the field I noticed a farmer or someone, one of the hired hands, way out there in the tobacco, so I pulled over to the side of the road and leaned across the front seat, you know, to ask directions… . And I'd unrolled the window and was yelling to him when the man turned and made this odd movement with his head, kind of nodding at me, only I couldn't see the face, and then he came toward the car and bent down and I could see that it wasn't a man."
George gave him a moment's silence, then asked, "So what was it, then?"
