Dark Carnival (22 page)

    Morning again. Radney Bellows flung his ball against the store front, caught it, flung it again. Someone hummed behind him. He turned. 'Hi, Mr. Odd!'

    Odd Martin, walking with green paper dollars in his fingers, counted them. He stopped on one spot and held himself in one position. His eyes were senseless.

    'Radney,' he cried out. 'Radney!' His hands groped.

    'Yes, sir, Mr. Odd!'

    'Radney, where was I going? Just now, where was I going? Going somewhere to buy something for Miss Weldon! Here, Radney, help me!'

    'Yes, sir, Mr. Odd!' Radney ran and stood in his shadow.

    A hand came down, money in it, seventy dollars of money. 'Radney, run buy a dress for — Miss Weldon — ' The hand opened, the money fell, the hand remained out, opening, making gasping, seeking moves, wrestling, wondering moves. There was numbed terror and longing and fear in Odd's face. 'The place, I can't remember the place, oh God, help me remember. A dress, and a coat. For Miss Weldon, at — at — '

    'Krausmann's Department Store?' said Radney.

    'No.'

    'Fielder's?'

    'No!'

    'Mr. Leiberman's?'

    'That's it! Leiberman! Here, here, Radney, run down to — '

    'Leiberman's.'

    ' — and get a new green dress for — Miss Weldon, and a coat. A new green dress with yellow roses painted on it. You get them and bring them to me here. Oh, Radney, wait.'

    'Yes, sir?'

    'Radney — you think, maybe, I could clean up at your house?' asked Odd quietly. 'I need a — a bath.'

    'Gee, I don't know, Mr. Odd. My folks'r funny. I don't know.'

    'That's all right, Radney. I understand. Run now!'

    Radney ran on the double. Odd Martin stood in the sunlight, humming a tune in his mouth. Radney ran with the money past the barber shop; poked his head inside. Mr. Simpson stopped snipping Mr. Trumbull's hair and glared at him. 'Hey!' cried Radney. 'Odd Martin's humming a tune!'

    'What tune?' asked Simpson.

    'Goes like
this
,' and Radney hummed it.

    'Yee God's Amaughty!' bellowed Simpson. 'So
that's
why Miss Weldon ain't here manicurin' this mornin'! That there tune's the Weddin' March!'

    Radney rushed on. Pandemonium!

    Shouting, laughter, a squishing and pattering of water. The back room of the barber emporium steamed and sweated. Everybody had his turn. Mr. Simpson heaved a bucket of hot water down over Odd Martin sitting in a galvanized tin tub. Mr. Trumbull banged and whisked Odd's pale back with a big beardy brush on a stick. Old man Gilpatrick doused him with a half quart of cow-soap, that bubbled and frothed and stank sweetly, and every once in a while Shorty Phillips hit Odd with jigger of eau de cologne. They all funned and ran around, slipping, in the steam. 'Put some more on ‘em!' More water. 'Scrub with that brush,
you!
' The brush sizzled on Odd's spine. Mr. Simpson gunked in his throat, laughing: 'Always said marriage is what you needed, Odd!' Somebody else said, 'Congratulations!' and smacked Odd right square on his shoulder blades with a can of ice-water. Odd Martin didn't even notice the shock. 'You'll smell fine now!'

    Odd sat blowing bubbles in one cupped hand. 'Thanks. Thanks so much for helping. Thanks for scouring me. Thanks, I needed it.'

    Simpson put a hand over his own smiling mouth. 'Nothing's too good for you, ya know that, Odd.'

    Someone whispered in the steamy background, 'Imagine. . . her. . . him. . . and married. . . moron married. . . to an idiot. . . why. . .'

    'Shut up, back there!' Simpson frowned.

    Radney ran in. 'Here's the green dress, Mr. Odd!'

    An hour later they perched Odd in the barber chair. Someone had lent him a new pair of black shoes. Mr. Trumbull polished them vigorously, winking at everybody. Mr. Simpson snipped Odd's hair, took no money for it. 'No, Odd keep your money. This is all a weddin' present to you. Yes, sir.' And he spat. Then he shook rose-water on Odd's scalp. 'There, Moonlight and roses!'

    Odd Martin looked around. 'You won't tell nobody about this marriage,' he asked, 'until tomorrow? Me and Miss Weldon sort of want a marriage without the town poking fun. You see?'

    'Sure, Odd,' said Simpson, finishing the job. 'Mum's the word. Where you goin' to live? You buyin' a farm?'

    'Farm?' Odd stepped from the chair. Somebody'd lent him a nice new tan coat, and someone else'd pressed his pants sharp for him. He looked elegant. 'Yes, I'm going over to buy the property now. Have to pay extra, but it's worth it. Extra. Come on, Radney.' He paused at the door. 'I bought a house out on the edge of town. I have to go make the payment on it now.'

    Simpson stopped him. 'What's it like? You didn't have much money.'

    'It's a small house,' said Odd, 'but it'll do. Some folks built it a while back, then moved away East somewhere. It was up for sale for only five hundred, so I got it. Miss Weldon and I are moving out there tonight, after our marriage. But don't tell nobody, please, until tomorrow.'

    'Sure thing, Odd. Sure thing.'

    Odd went away into the four o'clock light, Radney at his side, and the barber shop men fell down into chairs and grabbed their ribs and laughed.

    The sun went down slow and the snipping of the shears continued, with the buzzing of flies, the clock ticking, and the men sitting around nodding their heads, showing their teeth, waving their hands, joking. . .

    The next morning at breakfast, little Radney Bellows sat thoughtfully spooning his cereal. Father folded his newspaper across the table and looked at Mother. 'Everybody in town's talking about the quiet elopement of Odd Martin and Miss Weldon,' said Father. 'People, looking for them, can't find them.'

    'Well,' said Mother, 'I heard he bought her a house.'

    'I heard that, too,' admitted Father. 'I phoned Carl Rogers this morning. He says he didn't sell any house to Odd. And Carl is the only real-estate dealer in town.'

    Radney Bellows swallowed more cereal. He looked at his father. 'Oh, no, he's not the
only
real-estate dealer in town.'

    'What do you mean?' demanded Father.

    'Nothing, except I looked out the window at midnight and I saw something.'

    'You saw
what
?'

    'It was all moonlight. And you know what I saw? Well, I saw two people walking up the Elm Glade road. A man and a woman. A man in a nice new coat, and a woman in a green dress. Walking real slow. Holding hands.' Radney took a breath. 'And the two people were Mr. Odd Martin and Miss Weldon. And walking out the Elm Glade road there ain't any houses out that way at all. Only the Trinity Park Cemetery. And Mr. Gustavsson, in town, he sells tombs in the Trinity Park Cemetery. He's got an office in town. Like I said, Mr. Carl Rogers ain't the only real estate man in town. So — '

    'Oh,' snorted Father, irritably, 'you were dreaming!'

    Radney bent his head over his cereal and looked out from the corners of his eyes.

    'Yes, sir,' he said, finally, sighing. 'I was only dreaming.'

HE remembered how carefully and expertly Grandmother would fondle the cold cut guts of the chicken and withdraw the marvels therein; the wet shining loops of meat-smelling intestine, the muscled lump of heart, the gizzard with the collection of seeds in it. How neatly and nicely Grandma would slit the chicken's breast and push her fat little hand in to deprive it of its medals. These would be segregated, some in pans of water, others in paper to be thrown to the dog later, perhaps. And then the ritual of taxidermy, stuffing the bird with watered, seasoned bread, and performing surgery with a swift, bright needle, stitch after pulled-tight stitch.

    But for all the miracle of surgery, the bird would never survive the operation. It was only transported immediately into a hell and poked and basted and cooked until such time as the other surgeons gathered at the festive board and took up their scalpels to attack.

    This was one of the prime thrills of Douglas's eleven-year-old life span.

    The knife collection, itself, was an intrigue.

    It lay abed in the various squeaking drawers of the large wooden kitchen table. A magic table, from which Grandmamma, admittedly a rather kindly, gentle-faced and white-haired old witch, would draw paraphernalia for her miracles. The knives seemed to be most important in the dissection and investigation of chicken and other like fowl.

    Altogether, moving his small lips, Douglas counted twenty knives of varying shapes and sizes. And each was unfailingly polished into a sharp mirror in which he could find his red hair and freckles distorted brilliantly.

    He was to be quiet while Grandmamma worked over her split animals. You could stand across the table from her, your nose tucked over the edge, watching, but any loose boy-talk might interfere with the spell. It was a wonder watching Grandma brandish silver shakers over the bird, supposedly sprinkling showers of mummy-dust and pulverized Indian bones, muttering mystical verses under her toothless breath.

    Douglas at last gathered courage under him like a coiled spring and let fly with:

    'Grammy, am I like that inside?' He pointed at the chicken.

    'Like what, child?'

    'Am I like
that
, inside?'

    'Yes; a little more orderly and presentable, but just about the same — '

    'And more
of
it,' added Douglas, proud of his guts.

    'Yes,' said Grandma. 'More of it.'

    'Grandpa has lots more than me. His sticks out in front so he can rest his elbows on it, Grammy.'

    Grandma laughed and shook her head.

    Douglas said, 'And Lucie Williams, down the street, she — '

    'Hush, child!' cried Grandma.

    'But she's got — '

    'Never you mind what she's got! That's different. You just shush up about Lucie!'

    'But why is
she
different?'

    'A darning-needle dragon-fly is coming by some day soon and sew up your mouth,' said Grandma, firmly.

    Douglas retreated immediately, then thoughtfully came back with, 'How do you
know
I've got insides like that, Grandma?'

    'I just know, that's all. Go ‘way now.'

    Scowling, Douglas thumped off to the living-room, still bothered about the wealth of knowledge obtainable from adults lacking absolute proof. They were so
darn
right.

    The house bell jangled.

    Through the front-door glass as he ran down the hall, Douglas saw a straw hat. He opened the door, irritated at the continuous again-and-again jangle of the bell.

    'Good morning, child, is the lady of the house at home?'

    Cold grey eyes in a long smooth walnut-coloured face, gazed upon him. The man was tall, thin, and carried a suitcase, a brief-case, an umbrella under one bent arm, gloves rich and thick and grey on his thin hands, and wore a horribly new straw hat.

    Douglas backed up. 'She's busy.'

    'I wish to rent her upstairs room, as advertised.'

    'We've got ten boarders in the house, and it's already rented, go away.'

    'Douglas!' Grandma was behind him suddenly, forging along the hall. 'How do you do?' she said to the stranger. 'Won't you step in? Go right on upstairs. Never mind this child.'

    'Quite all right.' Unsmiling, the man stepped stiffly in. Douglas watched them ascend out of sight, heard Grandma detailing the conveniences of the upstairs room. A suitcase bumped down on the upstairs floor, and soon Grandma hurried down to take linens from the linen-closet, pile them on Douglas and send him scurrying up to the newly rented room.

    Douglas paused at the room's threshold. It was transformed simply by the man being in the room a moment. The straw hat lay on the bed, the umbrella leaned stiff against one wall like a dead bat with dark wings tucked. Douglas blinked at the umbrella. The man stood in the centre of the room, his suitcase at his feet.

    'Here.' Douglas decorated the bed with linens. 'We eat at twelve sharp and if you don't come down the soup'll get cold. Grandma fixes it so it will, every time.'

    The man counted out ten pennies, tinkled them into Douglas's blouse pocket. 'We shall be friends,' he said.

    It was funny, the man having nothing but pennies. Lots of them. No silver at all, no dimes, no quarters. Just new copper pennies.

    Douglas thanked him. 'I'll drop these in my dime bank when I get them changed into a dime.'

    'Saving money, young fellow?'

    'Got six dollars and fifty cents. This makes sixty cents. For my camp trip in August.'

    'I must wash now,' said the tall, strange man.

    Once, at midnight, Douglas had awakened to hear a storm rumbling outside, the cold hard wind shaking the house, the rain driving against the windows. And then, a bolt of lightning had landed outside the window with a silent, terrific pounding. He remembered that fear. That fear of looking around at his room, seeing it strange and terrible in the instantaneous light.

    It was the same, now, in this room. He stood looking at the stranger. This room was no longer the same, but changed indefinably, because this man, as quick as a lightning bolt, had shed his light about it. Douglas did not like it.

    The door closed in his face.

    The wooden fork came down, went up with mashed potatoes. Mr. Koberman, for that was his name, had brought the fork and the wooden knife and spoon with him when Grandma called lunch.

    'Mrs. Spaulding,' he had said, quietly. 'My own cutlery; please use it. I will have lunch today, but from tomorrow on, only breakfast and supper.'

    Grandma bustled in and out, bearing steaming tureens of soup and beans and mashed potatoes to impress her new boarder, while Douglas sat rattling his silverware on his plate, because he had discovered it irritated Mr. Koberman.

    'I know a trick,' said Douglas. 'Watch.' He picked a fork tine with his fingernail. He pointed at various sectors of the table, like a magician. Wherever he pointed, the sound of the vibrating fork-tine emerged, like a metal elfin voice. Simply done, of course. He simply pressed the fork handle on the table-top, secretly. The vibration came from the wood like a sounding-board. It looked like magic. 'There,
there
and
there
!' exclaimed Douglas, happily plucking the fork again. He pointed at Mr. Koberman's soup and the noise came from it.

    Mr. Koberman's walnut-coloured face was hard and firm and awful. He pushed the soup bowl away, his lips twisting, and fell back in his chair.

    Grandma appeared.

    'Why, what's wrong, Mr. Koberman?'

    'I cannot eat the soup,' he said.

    'Why?'

    Mr. Koberman glared at Douglas.

    'Because I am full and can eat no more. Thank you.'

    Excusing himself, Mr. Koberman walked upstairs.

    'What did you do, just then?' asked Grandma at Douglas, sharply.

    'Nothing. Grammy, why does he eat with wooden spoons?'

    'You're not to question! When do you go back to school, anyway?'

    'Seven weeks.'

    'Oh, my land,' said Grandma.

    Half-way to the second floor was a large, sun-filled window. It was framed by six-inch panes of orange, purple, blue, red and green glass. Some panes were yellow, some a wondrous burgundy.

    In the enchanted late afternoons, when the sun fell through to strike upon the landing and slide down the stair banister, Douglas stood entranced by this window, peering at the world through the multi-coloured panes.

    Now a blue world. Douglas pressed his nostrils against the blue pane, saw the blue-blue sky, the blue people and the blue street-cars and the trotting blue dogs.

    Now — he shifted panes — there was an amber world. Two lemonish women glided by, looking like daughters of Fu Manchu. Douglas giggled. This pane made even the sunlight more purely golden, like taffy spilled on everything.

    Douglas heard a noise above him. He knew Mr. Koberman stood outside his door, watching.

    Not turning, Douglas observed. 'All kinds of worlds. Blue ones, red ones, yellow ones. All different.'

    After a long pause, Mr. Koberman said, distractedly:

    'That is true. All kinds of worlds. Yes. All different.'

    The door closed. The hall was empty. Mr. Koberman had gone in.

    Douglas shrugged and found a new pane.

    'Oh! Everything's
pink!
'

    It was simple as a rain-drop. Spooning his morning cereal, Douglas felt a simple, pure white flame of hatred stand inside him, burning with a steady, unflickering beauty. Upstairs, this morning, Mr. Koberman's door had been ajar, the room empty. He had looked in, with distaste.

    It was Mr. Koberman's room now. Once it had been bright and flowery when Miss Sadlowe had lived there; full of nasturtiums and bright balls of knitting-cotton, bright pictures on the walls. When Mr. Caples had lived there it reflected him: his athletic vivacity, his tennis shoes on a chair, a disembodied sweater crumpled on the bed, wrinkled pants in the closet, cutouts of pretty girls on the bureau, but, now. . .

    Now the room was Koberman Land. Bare and clean and cold and everything microscopically set in place. Not a microbe or dust-mote or oxygen cell existed in the room without having an appointed and irrevocable station.

    Douglas finished breakfast, feeding simultaneously on one part buttered toast, two parts hatred.

    He walked up to the landing and stared through the coloured glasses.

    Mr. Koberman strolled by below, on the sidewalk, on his morning exercise. He walked straight, cane looped on arm halfway to elbow, his straw hat glued to his head with patent oil.

    Mr. Koberman was a blue man walking through a blue world with blue trees and blue flowers and — something else.

    There was something about Mr. Koberman. Douglas squinted. The blue glass
did
things to Mr. Koberman. His face, his suit —  

    There was no time to fathom it. Mr. Koberman glanced up just then, saw Douglas, and raised his cane-umbrella as if to strike, then put it down swiftly and hurried to the front door.

    'Young man,' he said, coming up the stairs, 'what were you doing?'

    'Just looking.'

    'That's all, is it?'

    'Yes, sir.'

    Mr. Koberman stood, fighting himself. The veins stood out on his face like small, grey wires. His eyes were deep black holes.

    Saying nothing, he went downstairs for another walk around the block.

    Douglas played in his sand-box in the backyard for half an hour. At about nine-thirty he heard the crash and the shattering tinkle. He jumped up. He heard Grandma's slippers scuffing in the hall, hurriedly, then scuffing back to the kitchen. The screen door
swannged
open, on its wire-spring restrainer.

    'Douglas!'

    She held the old razor strop in her hand.

    'I told you time and again never to fling your basketball against the house! Oh, I could just cry!'

    'I been sitting right here,' he protested.

    'Come in here! See what you done!'

    The great coloured window-panes were tumbled in a rainbow chaos on the upstairs landing. The basketball lay on the ruins.

    Before Douglas could even begin telling his innocence, Grandma struck him seven stinging whops on his rump. Screaming Douglas leaped like a fish, and wherever he landed he was whopped again! He sang an age-old song to his wild dancing.

    Much later, hiding his mind in a pile of sand in the sand-box, like an ostrich, Douglas nursed his pain. He knew who'd thrown that basketball to shatter the coloured windows. A man with a straw hat and a stiff umbrella, and a cold, grey room. Yeah, yeah, yeah. He dribbled tears in the sand. Just wait. Just wait.

    The thin, tinkling shuf-shuf-shuf noise was Grandma sweeping up the glittering debris. She brought it out back and cascaded it into the trash-bin. Blue, pink, white, yellow meteors of glass dropped brightly down. Grandma looked broken-hearted.

    When she was gone, Douglas dragged himself over to save out three pieces of the precious glass; pink and green and blue. He had an idea why Mr. Koberman disliked the coloured windows. These — he clinked them in his fingers — would be worth saving.

    Mr. Koberman worked nights and slept all day. Each morning at eight he arrived home, devoured a light breakfast, took a brief walk around the block, then climbed primly upstairs to sleep soundlessly throughout the day until six at night, when he came down to the huge supper with all the other boarders.

    Mr. Koberman's sleeping habits made it necessary for Douglas to be quiet. Not being quiet by nature, frustration set in on him like a growing abscess.

    Resultantly, when Grandma visited next door at Mrs. Eddy's or bought groceries at Mrs. Singer's, Douglas would vent his repressions by stomping up and down stairs beating upon a drum. Golf-balls, rolled slowly down the steps, were also delightful. Followed by a quick shuttling of the house killing Indians and flushing all the toilets three times in succession.