Dark Carnival (20 page)

    Growing, growing, the silence. Growing, growing the tenseness. Oh it's so dark, so far away from everything. Oh God!

    And then, way way off across the ravine:

    'Okay Mom! Coming, Mother!'

    And again:

    'Hi, Mom! Coming, Mom!'

    And then the quick scuttering of tennis shoes padding down through the pit of the ravine as three kids come dashing, giggling. Your brother Skipper, Chuck Redman and Augie Bartz. Running, giggling.

    The stars suck up like the stung antennae of ten million snails.

    The crickets sing!

    The darkness pulls back, startled, shocked, angry. Pulls back, losing its appetite at being so rudely interrupted as it prepared to feed. As the dark retreats like a wave on a shore, three kids pile out of it, laughing.

    'Hi, Mom! Hi, Shorts! Hey!'

    It smells like Skipper all right. Sweat and grass and his oiled leather baseball glove.

    'Young man, you're going to get a licking,' declares Mother. She puts away her fear instantly. You know she will never tell anybody of it, ever. It will be in her heart though, for all time, as it is in your heart, for all time.

    You walk home to bed in the late summer night. You are glad Skipper is alive. Very glad. For a moment there you thought —  

    Far off in the dim moonlit country, over a viaduct and down a valley, a train goes rushing along and it whistles like a lost metal thing, nameless and running. You go to bed, shivering, beside your brother, listening to that train whistle, and thinking of a cousin who lived way out in the country where that train is now; a cousin who died of pneumonia late at night years and years ago. . . You smell the sweat of Skip beside you. It is magic. You stop trembling. You hear footsteps outside the house on the sidewalk, as Mother is turning out the lights. A man clears his throat in a way you recognize.

    Mom says, 'That's your father.'

    It is.

'NO, there's no lief arguing. I got my mind fixed. You run along with your silly wicker basket. Land, land, where you ever get notions like that? You just skit out of here and don't bother me, I got my tattin' and knittin' to do, and no never minds about tall dark gentlemen with fangled ideas.'

    The tall dark young man stood quietly, not moving. Aunt Tildy hurried on with her talk.

    'You
heard
what I said, young man. If you got a mind to talk to me, well, you can talk, but meantime I hope you don't mind if I pour myself a bit of coffee. There. If you'd been a bit more polite, I mighta offered you some; but you stride in here high and mighty and you never rapped on the door or nothing. I don't like that kind of doing. You think you
own
the place.'

    Aunt Tildy fussed with her lap. 'Land, now, where'd I lay the yarn? I'm making myself a comforter. These winters get on mighty chill, I'll allow, and it ain't fittin' for a lady with bones like rice-paper to be settin' in a draughty old house like this without warmin' herself.'

    The tall dark man sat down.

    'That's an antique chair, so be gentle on it,' warned Aunt Tildy. 'Now, if you wants to start again, tell me things you got to tell, I'll listen respectful. But keep your voice in your shoes and stop staring at me with funny lights in your eyes. Land, it gives me the collie-wobbles.'

    The bone-porcelain, flowered clock on the mantel finished chiming three. Out in the hall, grouped around the wicker basket, four men waited, quietly, hardly moving, as if they were frozen.

    'Now, about that wicker basket,' said Aunt Tildy. 'It's past six feet long, and by the look of it, it ain't laundry. And those four men you walked in with, you don't need them to carry that basket — why, it's light as thistles. Eh?'

    The dark young man was leaning forward on the antique chair. Something in his face suggested that the basket wouldn't be so light after a while. There'd be something in it.

    'Shaw, now.' Aunt Tildy mused. 'Now where've I seen wicker like that before? Seems it was only a couple year ago. Seems to me — oh! Now I remembers. Certainly I do. It was when Mrs. Dwyer passed away next door.'

    Aunt Tildy set her coffee cup down, sternly. 'So
that's
what you're up on? I thought you were workin' to sell me something. Just set until my little Emily trounces home from college this afternoon! I wrote her a note the other day. Not admittin', of course, that I wasn't feelin' quite ripe and pert, but sort of hintin' I want to see her again, it's been a bunch of weeks. She livin' in New York and all. Almost like my own daughter, Emily is.

    'Now, she'll take care of you, young man. She'll shoo you out'n this parlour so quick it'll — '

    The dark young man looked at her as if she were tired.

    'No, I'm
not
,' snapped Aunt Tildy.

    He weaved back and forth on the chair, half shutting his eyes, resting himself. Maybe she would like to rest, too? Nice rest.

    'Great sons of Goshen on the Gilberry Dike! I got a hunderd comforters, two hunderds of sweaters and six hunderds of pot-holders in these fingers, no matter they're skinny! You run away and come back when I'm done, and maybe I'll talk to you.' Aunt Tildy shifted subjects. 'Let me tell you about Emily. She's such a sweet, fair child.'

    Aunt Tildy nodded thoughtfully. Emily. With hair like light yellow corn tassles, just as soft and sweet.

    'I well remembers the day her mother died, twenty years ago, leavin' Emily to my house. That's why I'm mad at you and your wickers and such goings-on. Who ever heard of people dyin' for any good cause? Young man, I don't
like
it. Why, I remembers — '

    Aunt Tildy paused, a brief pain of memory touched her heart. She remembered twenty-five years back, her father's voice in that old-time fragment:

    'Tildy,' he'd said, 'what are you going to do in life? The way you act, men don't have much with you. Nothing permanent, I mean. You kiss and run. You don't settle down and marry and raise children.'

    'Papa,' Tildy snapped right back at him, 'I like laughin' and playin' and singin', but I'm not the marryin' kind. You know why?'

    'Why?' asked Papa.

    'I can't find a man with my philosophy, Papa.'

    'What ‘philosophy's' that?'

    'That death is silly! And it
is
. It took Mama when we needed her most. Now, do you call that intelligent?'

    Papa looked at her and his eyes got wet and grey and bleak. He patted her shoulder. 'You're always right, Tildy. But what can we do? Death comes to everybody.'

    'Fight back!' she cried. 'Strike it under the belt! Fight it! Don't believe in it!'

    'It can't be done,' said Papa, sadly. 'Each of us is all alone in the world.'

    'There's got to be a start somewhere, Papa. I'm startin' my own philosophy here and now,' Tildy declared. 'Why, it's just silly that people live a couple years and then are dropped like a wet seed in a hole and nothing sprouts but a smell. What good do they do that way? They lay there a million years, helpin' nobody. Most of them fine, nice and neat people, or at least tryin'.'

    So, after a few years, Papa died. Aunt Tildy remembered how she'd tried to talk him out of it, but he passed on anyway. Then she ran off. She couldn't stay with him after he was cold. He was a denial of her philosophy. She didn't attend his burial. She didn't do anything but set up this antique shop on the front of this old house and live alone for years, that is until Emily came. Tildy didn't want to take the girl in. Why? Because Emily believed in dying. But her mother was an old friend, and Tildy had promised help.

    'Emily,' continued Aunt Tildy, to the man in black, 'was the first body to live in this house with me in years. I never got married. I didn't like the idea of livin' with a man twenty — thirty years and then have him up and die on me. It'd shake my philosophy down like a tower of cards. I shied away from the world pretty much. I guess I got pretty pernickety with people if they ever so much as mentioned death.'

    The young man listened patiently, politely. Then he lifted his hand. He seemed to know everything, with the shine in his cheeks, without her opening her mouth. He knew about her and the last war, in 1917, when she never read a newspaper. He knew about the time when she beat a man on the head with her umbrella and drove him from her shop because he insisted on telling her about the Argonne battle!

    Yes, and the dark young man, smiling at her from his seat on the antique chair, he knew about when radio came in, and how Aunt Tildy had stuck to her nice old phonograph records. Harry Lauder singing 'Roamin' In The Gloamin'', Madame Schumann-Heink and lullabies. With no interruptions of news; calamities, murders, mortalities, poisonings, accidents, terrors. Music that was the same each day. As the years went, Aunt Tildy had tried to teach Emily her philosophy. But Emily's mind was made up about — certain things. She was nice enough to respect Aunt Tildy's way of thinking, and she never mentioned — morbid things.

    All these things, the young man knew.

    Aunt Tildy sniffed. 'Think you're smart, huh? How you know all those things?' She shrugged. 'Well, now, if you think you can come and talk me into that silly wicker basket, you're way off the trestle. You so much as lay a hand on me, I'll spit
right
in your face!'

    The young man smiled. Aunt Tildy sniffed again.

    'You don't have to simper like a sick dog at me. I'm too old to be made love at. That's all twisted dry, like an old tube of paint, and left behind in the years.'

    There was a noise. The mantel clock sounded three. Aunt Tildy fastened her eyes on it. Strange. It seemed to her that it had just sounded three once before, five minutes ago. She liked the old clock. Bone-pale porcelain, gold angels dangling naked around the numeraled face of it. Nice tone. Like cathedral chimes made small and soft.

    'Are you just goin' to sit there, young man?'

    He was.

    'Then, you won't mind if I take a nap. Just a little cat-nap. Now, don't you get up off that chair. You set right there. You set there and don't come creepin' around me, toddying. Just goin' to close my eyes for a wee spell. That's right. That's right. . .'

    Nice and quiet and restful time of day. No noise. Silence. Just the clock ticking away, busy as termites in wood. Just the old room smelling of polished mahogany and oiled leather in the morris chair, and books sitting stiff on the shelves. So nice.

   
You aren't gettin' up from the chair, are you, mister? Better not. I got one eye open for you. Yes, indeed I have. Yes, I have. Oh. Ah. Hmm
.

   
So feathery. So drowsy. So deep. Under water, almost. Oh, so nice
.

   
Who's that movin' around in the dark with my eyes closed?

   
Who's that kissin' my cheek? You, Emily? No. No. Guess it was my thoughts. Only
—
dreamin'. Land, yes, that it is. Driftin' off, off, off. . .

    AH? WHAT SAY? OH!

    'Just a moment while I put on my glasses. There!'

    The clock chimed three again. Shame, old clock! Have to have it fixed.

    The young man in the dark suit stood near the door. Aunt Tildy nodded her head.

    'You leavin' so soon, young man? Good thing! Emily's comin' home and she'd fix you. Had to give up, didn't you? Couldn't convince me, could you? I'm mule-stubborn. You couldn't get me out of this house, nosirree. Well, young man, you needn't bother comin' back to try again.'

    The young man bowed with slow dignity.

    He had no intention of coming again. Ever.

    'Fine,' declared Aunt Tildy. 'I always told Papa I'd win out. Why, I'm going to knit in this window the next thousand years. They'll have to chew the boards down around me to get me out.'

    The dark young man twinkled his eyes.

    'Quit lookin' like the cat that ate the bird,' cried Aunt Tildy. 'Get out! And tote that old fool wicker box with you!'

    The four men treaded heavily out the front door. Tildy studied the way they handled the wicker. It wasn't heavy, yet they staggered with its weight.

    'Here, now!' She rose in tremulous indignation. 'Did you steal some of my antiques? My books?' She glanced about concernedly. 'No. The clocks? No. What you got in that wicker?'

    The dark young man whistled jauntily, turning his back to her and walking along behind the four staggering men. At the door he pointed to the wicker, offered its lid to Aunt Tildy. In pantomime he wondered if she would like to open it and gaze inside.

    'Curious? Me? Shaw, no! Get out! Get it outa here!' cried Tildy.

    The dark young man tapped a hat on to his head, saluted her crisply good-bye.

    'Good-bye!' said Tildy. 'Go away!'

    The door slammed. That was better. Gone. Darned fool men with their maggoty ideas. No never minds about the wicker. If they stole something, she didn't care, long as they let her alone.

    'Look,' said Aunt Tildy, pleased. 'Here comes Emily, home from college. About time. Lovely girl. See how she walks. But, Land, she looks pale and funny today. Walking so slow. I wonder why. Looks worried, she does. Poor girl. Tired, maybe. I'll just hustle her up a coffee pot and a tray of cakes.'

    Emily tapped up the front steps. Aunt Tildy, rustling around, could hear the slow, deliberate steps. What
ailed
the girl? Didn't sound like she had no more spunk than a flue-lizard. The front door swung wide. Emily stood in the hall, holding to the brass door-knob. Why didn't she come in? Funny girl.

    'Emily?' called Aunt Tildy.

    Emily shuffled into the parlour, head down.

    'Emily! I been waiting for you! There was the darndest fool men just here with a wicker. Tryin' to sell me something I didn't want. Glad you're home. Makes it right cosy — '

    Aunt Tildy realized that for a full minute Emily had been staring.

    'Emily, what's wrong? Stop starin'. Here, I'll bring you a cup of coffee.
There
.

    'Emily, why you backin' away from me?

    'Emily, stop screamin', child! Don't scream, Emily! Don't! You keep screamin' that way, you go crazy. Emily, get up off the floor, get away from that wall. Emily! Stop cringin', child. I won't hurt you!

    'Land, if it ain't one thing it's another.

    'Emily, what's
wrong
, child. . .?'

    Emily groaned through her hands over her face.

    'Child, child,' pleaded Tildy. 'Here, sip this water. Sip it, Emily. Ah, That's it.'

    Emily widened her eyes, saw something, then shut them, quivering, pulling into herself. 'Aunt Tildy, Aunt Tildy, Aunt Tildy, Aunt — '

    'Stop that!' Tildy slapped her. 'What
ails
you?'

    Emily forced herself to look up again.

    She thrust her fingers out. They vanished inside Aunt Tildy.

    'What fool notion!' cried Tildy. 'Take your hand away! Take it, I say!'

    Emily dropped aside, jerked her head, the golden hair shaking into shiny temblors. 'You're not here, Aunt Tildy. You're gone. I'm dreaming.'

    'You're not dreamin'.'

    'You're dead!'

    'Hush, baby.'

    'You
can't
be here.'

    'Lands of Goshen, Emily — '

    She took Emily's hand. It passed clean through her. Instantly, Aunt Tildy raged straight up, stomping her foot.

    'Why — why,' she muttered angrily. 'That — fibber! That liar! That sneak-thief!' Her thin hands knotted to wiry hard pale fists. 'That dark, dark fiend! He stole it, he stole it! He toted it away, he did, oh he did, he did! Why, I — ' She found no words. Wrath steamed in her. Her pale blue eyes were fire. She sputtered into an indignant silence. Then she turned to Emily. 'Child, get up! I need you. Get up, now!'

    Emily lay, shivering.

    'Part of me's here!' declared Aunt Tildy. 'By the Lord Harry, what's left will have to do. Momentarily. Fetch my bonnet!'