Nightmare Alley (23 page)

Horse-chestnut leaves were a golden rain in the early sun, falling on the turf of the park where the fountain had been turned off for the winter. In its center a stained bronze boy smiled up under his bronze umbrella at the shower which wasn’t falling.

Stan followed the south side of the park and turned up Main Street. Myers’ Toy and Novelty Mart had taken in the shop next to it and expanded. In the window were construction kits for airplanes with rubber-band motors. Mechanical tractors. A playsuit of what looked like long red underwear, with a toy rocket-pistol. A new generation of toys.

Leffert’s Kandy Kitchen was closed but the taffy still lay golden in metal trays in the window with almonds pressed in it to form flower-petal designs. Christmas was the time for Leffert’s taffy, not autumn. Except the autumn when they had beaten Childers Prep; he had taken a bag of it to the game.

The wind whirled down the street, making store signs creak above him. The autumns were colder than they used to be, but the snow of winter wasn’t as deep.

On the edge of town Stan looked out across rolling country. A farmhouse had stood on the ridge once. Must have burned down or been pulled down. Dark against the sky Mills’ Woods lay over the rise, too far to walk; and what was the use of going through all that again. She was probably dead by now. It didn’t matter. And the old man was dying.

Stan wondered if he could get a bus out of town before the night train left. Or he might load up with magazines and go to the hotel and read. It was well past noon but there was a lot of the day left.

Then a side street led him down familiar ways; here and there a lot stood empty, with a gaping cellar where a house had been.

He didn’t realize he had walked so far when the sight of the school brought him up short. In a country of square, brick boxes some long-dead genius on a school board had made them build this high school differently: gray stone with casement windows, like a prep school or an English college. The lawn was still green, the ivy over the archway scarlet with the old year.

It was a cool June evening and Stan wore a blue coat with white pants; a white carnation in his lapel. Sitting on the platform he watched the audience while the speaker droned on. His father was out there, about ten rows back. And alone. Couples everywhere else, only his father, it seemed, was alone.

“… and to Stanton Carlisle, the Edwin Booth Memorial medal for excellence in dramatic reading.”

He was before them now but applause didn’t register; he couldn’t hear it. The excitement under his ribs was pleasant. The power of the eyes upon him lifted him out of the black emptiness in which he had been sunk all evening. Then, as he turned, he suddenly heard the applause and saw his father, beaming, smashing his palms together, shooting quick looks left and right, enjoying the applause of the others.

“Taxi!” Stan saw the old limousine lumbering toward him and flagged it. The driver was Abe Younghusband, who didn’t recognize him until he gave the address.

“Oh, say, you must be Charlie Carlisle’s boy, ain’t you? Ain’t seen you around for some time.”

“Sixteen—nearly seventeen years.”

“That a fact? Well, guess there’s lots of improvements since you left. Say, I heard you’re a preacher now. That ain’t true, is it?”

“Sort of half and half. More of a lecturer.”

They turned off the car tracks, down the familiar street with the maples scarlet in the rays of the afternoon sun.

“I always figured you’d go on the stage. I still remember that show you put on at the Odd Fellows’ Hall, time you borrowed Chief Donegan’s watch and made believe you was smashing the hell out of it. His face was sure something to see. But I guess you got kind of tired of that stuff after a while. My boy’s a great one on tricks. Always sending away for stuff. Well, here we are. I hear Charlie’s pretty shaky these days. I hear he’s turned worse during the last week.”

The house looked tiny and run to seed. A wooden staircase had been built up one side of it, and a door cut into the attic floor. The yard was scuffed, with bare patches; the maples that used to shelter the house had been cut down. Where Gyp’s kennel had stood there was still a rectangle in the ground. The earth forgets slowly.

The woman who answered the door was white-haired and stout, the lines about her mouth petulant. It was Clara Carpenter; but what a tub she had turned into!

“How do you do. Mrs. Carpenter?”

“Mrs.
Carlisle
. Oh.” Her face lost some of its caution. “You must be Stan Carlisle. Come right in. Your dad’s been asking me a dozen times an hour when you were coming.” She lowered her voice. “He’s not a bit well, and I can’t make him stay in bed. Maybe you can persuade him to take it easy, a little. It’s his heart, you know.” She called upstairs, “Charlie, somebody to see you.” To Stan she said, “I guess you know your way upstairs. The big bedroom. I’ll be up directly.”

The stairs, the newel post, the two ridiculous spouted urns on the mantelpiece, seen through the double doors. The metal fireplace covering. The wallpaper was different, and the upper hall looked different some way, but he didn’t stop to find out why.

The old man was seated in a chair by the window, with a knitted afghan over his knees; seamed face, scrawny neck. His eyes looked frightened and sullen.

“Stanton?” Charlie Carlisle moved with difficulty, hands gripping the chair arms. “Stanton, come over here and let me take a good look. Gosh, you—you don’t look so very different, son. Only you’ve filled out a lot. You’re—you’re looking all right, son.”

Stan tried to throw his shoulders back. But a weight was pressing them, a deadly weight that made his knees tremble. The life seemed to be leaking out of him, flowing into the carpet under his feet. He took a chair on the other side of the window and leaned back in it, drawing his breath, trying to fight off the crushing weariness.

“I didn’t know you’d married Clara,” Stan said at last, getting a cigarette out and lighting it. He offered one to his father, who shook his head.

“Doctor’s got me cut down to one cigar a day. Yes, I kept bachelor’s hall for quite a spell after you left. I—I always figured I’d hear from you, boy, and then I’d tell you. Clara’s a fine girl. Ever hear from your mother?”

The words had a hard time coming out, his lips were so tired. “No. Never did.”

“I’m not surprised. Guess she didn’t find us exciting enough. What do they call it now—glamour? That’s what Cynthia wanted. Glamour. Well, if she found it I don’t reckon she’s got much of it now.” The mouth came down in creases of bitterness. “But tell me what you been doing, Stan. I said to Clara, sure he’ll come. I said, we had our differences, and I guess he’s been busy, making his own way. I said, I know he’ll come if I tell him I’m in bad shape. Feel a lot better today, though. I told the doctor I’d be back at the office in a month. Feel a lot better. What’s this I hear you’re a minister of the gospel, Stan? Clara heard you on the radio one day, she said. That’s how we knew where to send that telegram.”

The Rev. Carlisle uncrossed his legs and knocked the ashes from his cigarette into a jardiniere holding a fern. “I’m more of a lecturer. But I do have a Minister’s certificate.”

The elder Carlisle’s face brightened. “Son, I’m gladder to hear that from you, and believe it, than any other news I’ve heard in a month of Sundays. You work your way through seminary? Why, son, I wanted you to go. I was willing to lay out cold cash to pay your way. You know that. Only you couldn’t see it at the time. Always fooling with that magic nonsense. I’m glad you finally got that out of your system. It was your mother put those ideas in your head, Stan, buying you that box of tricks. I haven’t forgotten it. But I don’t even know your denomination.”

The Rev. Carlisle closed his eyes. His voice sounded flat and toneless in his own ears. “It’s not a big or a rich church, Dad. The United Spiritual League. It’s devoted to preaching the gospel that the soul survives earthly death, and that those of us who still are earth-bound can receive intelligence—from those who have passed over to the higher spheres.”

“You mean you’re a spiritualist? You believe the dead come back?”

Stan forced a smile, his eyes wandering up to the ceiling where cracks made the outline of an old man’s face. The sun was slanting through the window now and night was coming but not fast enough. He came back with a start.

“I’m not going to try converting you, Dad. I am secure in my faith. Many others share my views, but I am no proselytizer.”

His father was silent for a time, swallowing uneasily. His head seemed to nod back and forth a fraction of an inch as he sat, a quick, rhythmic, involuntary nod of weakness. “Well, everybody to his own faith. I don’t hold with spiritualism much. But if you’re convinced, that’s all that matters. Real estate is all shot, here in this town, son. If I was younger I’d pull out. Town’s dying. I been trying to get the Civic Betterment Committee to put on a little campaign—make it a good, open-shop town and no nonsense. Attract industry. But they don’t listen. Property values way down—Oh, here’s Clara. Reckon it’s most suppertime. We been talking so much.”

“I’ll wash up and be right down,” Stan said. The load of weariness— There was a place where he might leave it, where it might slip from him like a weight cut from his neck.

In the hall he turned left and his hand was reaching for the knob when, with a cold flash, he realized that he was facing a smooth, papered wall. The attic door was not there! Looking down, he saw a single step at the bottom of the wall. So that was it—the stairs outside. It was an apartment now, cut off from the rest of the house. Strangers living in it, under the slope of the roof, around the brick chimney. The iron bed, the silk patchwork, smell of camphor and silk and lumber and the tight mesh of maple leaves below, seen through the narrow windows where you could make out the signboard on the lawn of the church. The house was dying, too.

Stan closed the bathroom door and locked it. The same taps on the washbowl anyhow, even though the walls were painted a different color. And the odd mix-up of tiles in the floor, where he used to find half-tiles and try to count them. The old-fashioned tub on its high legs; marble-topped commode with its old-fashioned mahogany drawers; shaving stand with its circular cabinet and a mirror on a swivel, where Dad kept his shaving brush, his mug and his soap, his hones.

Stan wondered if the water still made the sharp sucking gurgle in the tub when the stopper was pulled out—as it did when his mother had finished splashing and singing to herself. He recalled the day when he had fallen out of the tree, and Mother had picked him up in her arms and carried him upstairs, bleeding all down the front of her dress. She hadn’t minded the dress getting messed up. He had made leggings of corrugated cardboard, like explorers wear in the jungle. One of them had been bloody; after the doctor had sewed up the cut in his forehead Mother undressed him, taking the cardboard leggings off carefully. She had put them on the marble top of the commode. They stayed there for a long time, until the blood stains became black. Jennie finally threw them out—said they gave her the jimjams.

If only they could all have stayed together a few more years. If Mother had not minded the town. If Dad had always been as weak and as friendly as he was now that he was dying. If only he could have been dying for twenty years, Stan might have loved him. Now there was nothing but the old things, and they were going past him and would soon be gone.

He drew his breath and tried again to strain his shoulders back. I mustn’t forget to ask the old man about the church and how to go about selling it when it’s time to pull out. But the Church of the Heavenly Message seemed too far away to matter, now. The old man was slipping into that dark hole where you fall and fall forever because there’s no bottom to it. We are all creeping to its edge, some slowly, some, like the old man, balanced on the brink. And then what? Like the rush of wind past a bullet, probably, forever and ever. Gyp was dead all these years. Even the memories of him were dead and forgotten except in one mind. And when that was gone Gyp would be forgotten entirely. When the old man was dead and under ground Stan could forgive it.

Gyp never knew what hit him. They said the vet just put chloroform on a rag and dropped it in the box.

But that end of rope, tied to the leg of the workbench in the garage—it had been cut when Stan came home from school. Why did they tie Gyp up in there if they wanted to get rid of him? There was no they. Only he. Gyp had a chain on his kennel. Why the rope?

Oh, Christ, let me get to hell out of here. But the voice that had said “son” held him. The house was swallowing him. And they had sealed up the attic door; there was no way. All the years had dropped off, tearing with them his poise, so carefully built up tone by tone. They had taken his cleverness, his smile, his hypnotic glance, leaving him powerless and trapped inside the walls of old familiarity.

He had come back because Dad was dying and Mother was gone and the maples were cut down, the square still visible where Gyp’s kennel had stood, and the shaving stand on its smooth pillar of wood, still in the same place and still smooth under his hand, smelling sweetly of shaving soap.

The strop.

It hung from the brass hook where it had always hung. It was smooth, black with handling and with oil, shining.

The garage at night with the moonlight making bars of silver across the floor, silvering the workbench, sparkling on the bar of the vise and on the lidless coffee cans of nails and bolts. Shining blue and cold on the concrete floor. And the shadows hiding dread and shame.