One and Wonder (44 page)

How do you stop thinking?
he thought miserably.
Stop thinking!
he told himself.
Stop thinking, damn you!

He might be on the brink of the perfect solution. But if he thought of it, it would be worthless. And if he couldn't think of it, then—

The circle was complete. He was back where he started, staring at its perfect viciousness. There was only one possi—

Mary had a little lamb with fleece as white as snow and everywhere that Mary went
(Relax)
the lamb
(Don't think!)
was sure
(Act on the spur of the moment) to
go. Mary had a . . .

“Well, Mr. Wright, are you ready to go?” Matt started. Beside him were a pair of black suede shoes filled with small feet. His gaze traveled up the lovely, nylon-sheathed legs, up the clinging black dress that swelled so provocatively, to the face with its blue eyes and red lips and blonde hair.

Even in his pressing predicament, Matt had to recognize the impact of her beauty. It was a pity that her other gifts were too terrible.

“I reckon your fiancée won't mind,” Abbie said sweetly. “Being as you ain't got a fiancée. Are you ready?”

“Ready?” Matt looked down at his soiled work clothes. “For what?”

“You're ready,” Abbie said.

A wave of dizziness swept him, followed by a wave of nausea. Matt shut his eyes. They receded. When he opened his eyes again, he had a frightening
sensation of disorientation. Then he recognized his surroundings. He was on the dance floor in Springfield.

Abbie came into his arms. “All right,” she said, “dance!”

Shocked, Matt began to dance, mechanically. He realized that people were staring at them as if they had dropped through a hole in the ceiling. Matt wasn't sure they hadn't. Only two other couples were on the small floor, but they had stopped dancing and were looking puzzled.

As Matt swung Abbie slowly around he saw that the sprinkling of customers at the bar had turned to stare, too. A waiter in a white jacket was coming toward them, frowning determinedly.

Abbie seemed as unconcerned about the commotion she had caused as the rainbow-hued juke box in the corner. It thumped away just below Mart's conscious level of recognition. Abbie danced lightly in his arms.

The waiter tapped Matt on the shoulder. Matt sighed with relief and stopped dancing. Immediately he found himself moving perkily around the floor like a puppet. Abbie, he gathered, did not care to stop.

The waiter followed doggedly. “Stop that!” he said bewilderedly. “I don't know where you came from or what you think you're doing, but you can't do it in here and you can't do it dressed like that.”

“I—I c-can-n't s-st-stop-p!” Matt said jerkily.

“Sure you can,” the waiter said soothingly. He plodded along after them. “There's lots of things a man can't do, but he can always stop whatever you're doing. I should think you'd be glad to stop.”

“W-w-would,” Matt got out. “S-st-stop-p!” he whispered to Abbie.

“Tell the man to go ‘way,” Abbie whispered back.

Matt decided to start dancing again. It was easier than being shaken to pieces. “I think you'd better go away,” he said to the waiter.

“We don't like to use force,” the waiter said, frowning, “but we have to keep up a standard for our patrons. Come along quietly”—he jerked on Mart's arm—“or—”

The grip on Matt's arm was suddenly gone. The waiter vanished. Matt looked around wildly.

The juke box had a new decoration. Dazed, opaque-eyed, the waiter squatted on top of the box, his white jacket and whiter face a dark fool's motley in the swirling lights.

Abbie pressed herself close. Matt shuddered and swung her slowly around the floor. On the next turn, he saw that the waiter had climbed down from his perch. He had recruited reinforcements. Grim-faced and silent, the waiter approached, followed by another waiter, a lantern-jawed bartender, and an ugly bulldog of a man in street clothes. The manager, Matt decided.

They formed a menacing ring around Matt and Abbie. “Whatever your
game is,” growled the bulldog, “we don't want to play. If you don't leave damn quick, you're going to wish you had.”

Matt, looking at him, believed it. He tried to stop. Again his limbs began to jerk uncontrollably.

“I-I c-can-n't,” he said. “D-d-don't y-you th-think I-I w-would if I-I c-could?”

The manager stared at him with large, awed, bloodshot eyes. “Yeah,” he said. “I guess you would.” He shook himself. His jowls wobbled. “Okay, boys. Let's get rid of them.”

“Watch yourself,” said the first waiter uneasily. “One of them has a trick throw.”

They closed in. Matt felt Abbie stiffen against him. They vanished, one after the other, like candles being snuffed. Matt glanced unhappily at the juke box. There they were on top of the box, stacked in each other's laps like a totem pole. The pile teetered and collapsed in all directions. Dull thuds made themselves heard even above the juke box. Matt saw them get up, puzzled and wary. The bartender was rubbing his nose. He doubled his fists and started to rush out on the floor. The manager, a wirier sort, grabbed his arm. The four of them went into consultation. Every few seconds one of them would raise his head and stare at Matt and Abbie. Finally the first waiter detached himself from the group and with an air of finality reached behind the juke box. Abruptly the music stopped; the colored lights went out. Silence fell. The four of them turned triumphantly toward the floor.

Just as abruptly, the lights went back on; the music boomed out again. They jumped.

Defiantly, the manager stepped to the wall and pulled the plug from the socket. He turned, still holding the cord. It stirred in his hand. The manager looked down at it incredulously. It wriggled. He dropped it hurriedly, with revulsion. The plug rose cobra-like from its coils and began a slow, deadly, weaving dance. The manager stared, hypnotized with disbelief.

The cord struck. The manager leaped back. The bared, metal fangs bit into the floor. They retreated, all four of them, watching with wide eyes. Contemptuously, the cord turned its back on them, wriggled its way to the socket, and plugged itself in.

The music returned. Matt danced on with leaden legs. He could not stop. He would never stop. He thought of the fairy tale of the red shoes. Abbie seemed as fresh and determined as ever.

As the juke box came into sight again, Matt noticed some commotion around it. The bartender was approaching the manager with an axe, a glittering fire axe. For one whirling moment, Matt thought the whole world had gone mad. Then he saw the manager take the axe and approach the juke
box cautiously, the axe poised in one hand ready to strike.

He brought it down smartly. The cord squirmed its coils out of the way. The manager wrenched the axe from the floor. Bravely he advanced closer. He looked down and screamed. The cord had a loop around one leg; the loop was tightening. Frantically the manager swung again and again. One stroke hit the cord squarely. It parted. The music stopped. The box went dark. The headless cord squirmed in dying agonies.

Abbie stopped dancing. Matt stood still, his legs trembling, sighing with relief.

“Let’s go, Abbie,” he pleaded. “Let’s go quick.”

She shook her head. “Let’s sit.” She led him to a table which, like the rest of the room, had been suddenly vacated of patrons. “I reckon you'd like a drink.”

“I'd rather leave,” Matt muttered.

They sat down. Imperiously, Abbie beckoned at the waiter.

He came toward the table cautiously. Abbie looked inquiringly at Matt.

“Bourbon,” Matt said helplessly. “Straight.” In a moment the waiter was back with a bottle and two glasses on a tray. “The boss said to get the money first,” he said timidly.

Matt searched his pockets futilely. He looked at the manager, standing against one wall, glowering, his arms folded across his chest. “I haven't got any money on me,” Matt said.

“That's all right,” Abbie said. “Just set the things down.”

“No, ma'am,” the waiter began, and his eyes rolled as the tray floated out of his hand and settled to the table. He stopped talking, shut his mouth, and backed away.

Abbie was brooding, her chin in one small hand. “I ain't been a good daughter,” she said. “Paw would like it here.”

“No, no,” Matt said hurriedly. “Don't do that. We've got enough trouble—”

Jenkins was sitting in the third chair, blinking slowly, reeking of alcohol. Matt reached for the bottle and sloshed some into a glass. He raised it to his lips and tossed it off. The liquor burned his throat for a moment and then was gone. Matt waited expectantly as he lowered the glass to the table. He felt nothing, nothing at all. He looked suspiciously at the glass. It was still full.

Jenkins focused his eyes. “Ab!” he said. He seemed to cringe in his chair. “What you doin’ here? You look different. All fixed up. Find a feller with money?”

Abbie ignored his questions. “If I asked you to do some-thin’, Paw, would you do it?”

“Sure, Ab,” Jenkins said hurriedly. His eyes lit on the bottle of bourbon.
“Anything.” He raised the bottle to his lips. It gurgled pleasantly and went on gurgling.

Matt watched the level of amber liquid drop in the bottle, but when Jenkins put it down and wiped his bearded lips with one large hairy hand, the bottle was half empty and stayed that way. Jenkins sighed heavily.

Matt raised his glass again and tilted it to his lips. When he lowered it, the glass was still full and Matt was still empty. He stared moodily at the glass.

“If I asked you to hit Mr. Wright in the nose,” Abbie went on, “I reckon you’d do it?”

Matt tensed himself.

“Sure, Ab, sure,” Jenkins said. He turned his massive head slowly. He doubled his fist. The expression behind the beard was unreadable, but Matt decided that it was better that way. “Ain't you been treatin’ mah little gal right?” Jenkins demanded. “Say, son,” he said with concern, “you don't look so good.” He looked back at Abbie. “Want I should hit him?”

“Not now,” Abbie said. “But keep it in mind.”

Matt relaxed and seized the opportunity to dash the glass to his mouth. Futilely. Not a drop of liquor reached his stomach. Hopelessly, Matt thought of Tantalus.

“Police!” Jenkins bellowed suddenly, rising up with the neck of the bottle in one huge hand.

Matt looked. The bartender was leading three policemen into the front of the room. The officers advanced stolidly, confident of their ultimate strength and authority. Matt turned quickly to Abbie.

“No tricks,” he pleaded. “Not with the law.”

Abbie yawned. “I'm tired. I reckon it's almost midnight.”

Jenkins charged, bull-like, bellowing with rage. And the room vanished.

Matt bunked, sickened. They were back in the cabin, Abbie and he. “What about your father?” Matt asked.

“Next to liquor,” Abbie said, “Paw likes a fight best. I'm going to bed now. I'm real tired.”

She left her shoes on the floor, climbed into her bunk, and pulled the blanket around herself.

Matt walked slowly to his bunk,
Mary had a little lamb
. . . He sat down on it and pulled off his shoes, letting them thump to the floor . . .
with fleece as white as snow
. . . He pulled the blanket around his bunk and made rustling sounds, but he lay down without removing his clothes . . .
and everywhere that Mary went
. . . He lay stiffly, listening to the immediate sounds of deep breathing coming from the other bunk . . .
the lamb was sure to go
. . .

Two tortured hours crawled by. Matt sat up cautiously. He picked up
his shoes from the floor. He straightened up. Slowly he tiptoed toward the door. Inch by inch, listening to Abbie's steady breathing, until he was at the door. He slipped it open, only a foot. He squeezed through and drew it shut behind him.

A porch board creaked. Matt froze. He waited. There was no sound from inside. He crept over the pebbles of the driveway, suppressing exclamations of pain. But he did not dare stop to put on his shoes.

He was beside the car. He eased the door open and slipped into the seat. Blessing the steep driveway, he released the brake and pushed in the clutch. The car began to roll. Slowly at first, then picking up speed, the car turned out of the driveway into the road.

Ghostlike in the brilliant moon, it sped silent down the long hill. After one harrowing tree-darkened turn, Matt switched on the lights and gently clicked the door to its first catch.

When he was a mile away, he started the motor.

Escape!

Matt pulled up to the gas pump in the gray dawn that was already sticky with heat. Through the dusty, bug-splattered windshield the bloodshot sun peered at him and saw a I dark young man in stained work clothes, his face stubbled blackly, his eyes burning wearily. But Matt breathed deep; he drew in the wine of freedom.

Was this Fair Play or Humansville? Matt was too tired and hungry to remember. Whichever it was, all was well.

It seemed a reasonable assumption that Abbie could not find him if she did not know where he was, that she could not teleport herself anywhere she had not already been. When she had disappeared the first time, she had gone to the places in Springfield she knew. She had brought her father from his two-room shanty. She had taken him back to the cabin.

The sleepy attendant approached, and with him came a wash of apprehension to knot his stomach. Money! He had no money. Hopelessly he began to search his pockets. Without money he was stuck here, and all his money was back in his cabin with his clothes and his typewriter and his manila folder of notes.

And then his hand touched something in his hip pocket. Wonderingly, he pulled it out. It was his billfold. He peered at its contents. Four dollars in bills and three hundred in traveler’s checks. “Fill it up,” he said.

When had he picked up the billfold? Or had he had it all the time? He could have sworn that he had not had it when he was in the cocktail lounge in Springfield. He was almost sure that he had left it in his suit pants. The uncertainty made him vaguely uneasy. Or was it only hunger? He hadn't eaten since toying with Abbie's stolen delicacies yesterday afternoon.