The Followed Man (37 page)

"Who knows?" he said,
startled into the inane question.

"George described it to me,
so I guess I know. You going to live by yourself, like a hermit?"

"Maybe."

"Hmm."

It was as if she looked straight
at him for the first time. Her small eyes, black shiny things in the
soft white folds of her lids, might almost have been evil, or else he
was suddenly too much on the defensive. Not so much on the defensive
as on the very edge of any knowledge of his plans or desires, where
he had no sure footing at all.

But her eyes were not evil, only
old and curious; she meant no harm, she just wanted to have a hand in
things. Here was this rar­ity, an unencumbered man, a widower, a
curiosity indeed. That and their old fondness for each other when
he'd been a child and she a young woman. He wondered if she had any
recollection, and if she had, whether she thought it strange or
important in any way, that she had let that child climb upon her
smooth, naked body, the child in a kind of night-warm paradise.

He didn't know how to ask that,
but she looked at him with a tolerant, fond, knowing expression as
they said good-bye.

He went on into Leah on the High
Road and bought groceries at Follansbees' and a ten-cubic-foot
refrigerator from the Electric Coop Store. Two men helped him slide
it off the loading platform into the truck and he roped it, still in
its crate, in a front corner of the truck bed. He would decide how to
get it off the truck later, probably with a couple of two-by-eight
planks. Lumber for joists, roof, sills and beams had been delivered
by the lumber yard and was stacked by the cabin site, shrouded in
black polyethylene that whispered and flapped.

He forgot to stop at the Post
Office for his mail and was on the road back to Cascom when he
thought of it, decided to get it another day, then turned around and
went back for it. He didn't want any mail, yet, in order to avoid
closer confrontations, needed to know who exactly did want to
communicate with him. This seemed a trap, unfair; but then he had
foolishly told people where he was. In time, maybe, if he slowly and
carefully retreated, no one would think to write to the Hermit of
Cascom Mountain. So far he hadn't been doing too well.

He picked up his mail, paid
forwarding charges and went back to the truck to read it, the hot,
fumy breezes of the town square blowing through the windows.

The August issue of
Gentleman;
he wondered if he would actu­ally read any of it. A letter
from the Avenger, postmarked Wellesley, MA. He held the envelope in
his hands. It was as if he were blind, trying to get hold of someone
in a room in which the other could see. It was addressed to Luke
Carr, General Delivery, Leah, N.H. One step closer. There was a
letter from Jane Jones, and another from Martin Troup on Martin's own
stationery. The rest was junk he could throw away without opening.

First the Avenger. As he opened
the envelope he felt almost sick. This asshole, this shit-for-brains,
was soiling his freedom.

Then he tried to imagine someone
who would actually be flat­tered by such attention. Maybe he
could imagine that person; maybe even himself, once, when he wasn't
known and wanted to be known.

Luke Carr:

You will die slow with you're dirty, nasty gonads and prick cut off.
How would you like to eat it???

Mr. Death

So the Avenger now seemed more
interested in method than in justification. If Luke had any insight
into the matter at all, he had to find this note somewhat reassuring,
since literary creation of this sort was rewarding in itself—a
nice thrill to write nasty like that. Maybe the Avenger's kick was
just creative writing.

The pistol was stashed under the
dash, however, where he could reach it quickly. He'd spent some time
arranging a hidden but accessible place there for the holster.

He opened Jane's letter, which
was written on flowered blue sta­tionery, her name and address
embossed at the top and on the en­velope by one of those
pliers-like gadgets.

Mrs. Hamilton Jones
206 Winthrop St.
Wellesley, MA.

Dear Luke,

I arrived a few minutes ahead of
Ham—about 11:45—so he didn't have to worry about me,
thank the Good Lord and 1-93! I keep thinking of everything that
happened in your Mountain Greenery. I was a fool to barge in on you
like that, but that's the way I am. It was so lovely. We mustn't do
it again but I shall always re­member those wonderful moments.

I'm sorry I was so anxious to
get back. I was nearly out of my mind when we said good-bye. Forgive
me.

If you ever get down this way
again, please come and see us.

Love,
Jane

Hmm. It didn't sound like Jane,
and because it didn't sound like her, what could it tell him? Perhaps
Jane was one of those people who spoke one way and wrote another. But
which was the truth? He wanted out of it, and she seemed to be
allowing him to be out of it. Her handwriting was nervous and
angular, the tails of letters stabbing straight down into sharp
points before they shot upward again. Lord, he thought, this wasn't
over. She'd get the itch for some more adultery and turn up again.
Maybe he was being small and mean. He felt shame. Hadn't he loved her
at all? Whatever power of desire she'd caused was gone, and now all
he wanted was cool freedom.

He was sweating in the hot wind
from the pavement and the passing traffic, a bad sweat. The two notes
mixed in his head, rein­forcing each other. He put them in the
dash compartment and opened Martin Troup's.

Dear Luke,

As you can see, I'm not using
Gentleman's letterhead this time and I'm typing this myself. We've
been friends, I fondly think, for a long time and I've got some
questions I'd like to ask that I don't want anybody at Gentleman to
know about. Anybody. Mainly, what have you heard about Gentleman and
specifically me, lately? I'd like to stop right here without telling
you any more and see what you'd have to say, but, Old Buddy, I'm
about to blow my top, there's about nobody else I half-way trust,
Charlene and I have parted but that was no surprise (I know why you
shied off coming to supper and don't blame you), I've got five kids
by three goddam horrible mar­riages, one in an expensive college,
two in expensive prep schools and two in an expensive grade school
where they wear leotards a lot.

Don't know why I got onto that,
but stay with me, boy, you're hearing a lonesome roar of pain from a
trapped bear. I can see the white of my own leg bone in the steel,
and there's a couple of poi­soned arrows in my back.

Maybe you and me weren't meant
for this fucking political-ego-power-performance shit, where a man's
word's nothing but a fart in a whirlwind or a piss hole in the snow.
If you trust a man, like I trusted Merlin Richards, or for Christ's
sake even Jimmy Barnes—can you believe that? Jimmy? Why,
son, you're just a fool. I even find myself wondering about Annie
Gelb, for Christ's sake.

Anyway, to spare your sensitive hide from too many details, what
happened was when the new owners came around, Merlin, a man I brought
in here and treated like a son—he's talented enough—and
trusted, along with Jimmy Barnes, who I once thought was my friend,
or at least a fairly honorable man, began stabbing me in the back,
making up, and I mean made up out of nothing but their wily
imaginations, all kinds of things I was supposed to have done, said,
not done, etc. How do I know about it? For one thing, finally, when I
began to get ominous little signals from upstairs, I asked Merlin if
he knew what was coming down and with the straightest face you ever
saw he told me how he heard with his own ears and saw with his own
eyes these fictions. He said that I said things to him that I do not
remember saying and that, in fact, are not even in my psychic
language. He evidently made them up, and now—what chutzpah,
Luke!—he tells me what I am supposed to have done and said that
hurt morale, sowed dissention, convinced my colleagues I was a
sa­dist, a drunk or a nut.

You've met the fellow. I suddenly know more about him now, and it
makes a bad list. Plausibility is his talent, omniscience is his
delusion, and power is his game. I was so sick when he told me all
this shit I thought I might do him a favor and end his miserable
ex­istence on the spot. I guess I looked kind of funny, because
he asked me if I was "getting any help." From a shrink, I
guess he meant. That night I went home and fucking blubbered. The
death of friendship, the death of trust, Luke. That's a wound that
never heals.

I know you're up there in the clean woods someplace, where you won't
hear much, up there in that strange state of New Hampshire that's
more of a culture lag than Mississippi these days, communing with the
deer or something. But I've got to try to fight this thing, make a
stand somehow, keep my pride in my work, which you might think
frivolous sometimes but, dammit, has always been re­ceptive to
your kind of thing, too. So if you know anything, have heard
anything, or can think of anything, buy a pencil and a piece of paper
and let me know. Or if they've got a telephone over to the village
you might even try one of them infernal instruments. Just ask the
operator for Martin Troup, in New York City, where a man's as good as
his word.

Martin

Luke read the letter again,
feeling empty, like loss, and distant; Martin had never claimed
anything from him in the past but de­cent work. He must be truly
hurt, not just because of his job, be­cause there were other jobs
and it was musical chairs in the profession—but who knew?
Martin had been there for a long time, and had been part of
Gentleman's
transition from slick, girly sophistication to
whatever lively mixture it was now. The feeling was like hearing of
the destruction of something old, dependable and more meritorious
than not, or even like hearing of a death. As for the truth of
Martin's accusations, one incident came im­mediately to mind.
Several years ago, when he'd met Merlin Rich­ards, Merlin had
addressed Martin as "Sir," no irony or humor implied. Luke
had been a little startled, and had looked at Mer­lin's bland
face to see. He felt then that Martin liked Merlin enough, for some
reason, to overlook small indicators, but hadn't thought much more of
it.

This outburst, however, was all
wrong; this last roar was fatal by definition. How could he help? If
things had gone as far as Martin said, with ominous signals coming
down, he should be out of there already. No one was ever considered,
except in his own de­lusions, unexpendable. And gratitude was not
a chip to be cashed.

He had to call Martin and didn't
know what to say to him. Of course he couldn't remember
Gentleman's
telephone number and his address book was in the tent, so he
would have to call informa­tion; the complications of that, on
top of all the other complica­tions, made him want to run back up
the mountain. He always did what other people wanted him to do. He
never did anything he wanted to do, just responded, responded, all of
his life. He got some change in Trask's Pharmacy, went to the
telephone booth and with weary, nearly panicked clumsiness deciphered
the in­structions in the telephone book, got the number and
called col­lect. He finally got Annie Gelb, who said she would
accept the call. Martin was in conference.

"Mr. Carr . . . Luke,"
Annie said.

"Martin asked me to call,"
he said.

"I know," she said,
meaning that she knew everything.

"Tell him I don't know
anything except what Robin Flash told me about the new owners. What's
going on?"

"It's awful. Everybody's
looking for other jobs."

"Is Martin okay?"

"No, I wouldn't say so.
He's upset. He says nobody will give him any answers." She was
silent after that, and then, just as he decid­ed that he would
have to say something, she said quickly, "Your name was on a
list of people they wanted information about. Your name keeps coming
up and Martin worries about that, too."

"I don't know anything
about that, Annie. In any case, I'm not for hire. Tell him that. Tell
him my word's still good and I'm a hermit, now, terminal case. Tell
him to keep his pecker up, okay?"

"All right."

"Good luck to you both,
huh?"

"I'll tell him. I wish you
luck, too, Mr. Carr."

So he'd got out of it without
having to promise to call back. Feel­ing a little dishonorable,
he went back to his personal, singular, paid-for, registered,
inspected and insured, functional truck. He sat behind the wheel and
lit a cigarette, which he soon put out. In this truck, or while
working on the cabin, and lately on his equip­ment shed, he found
that he rarely smoked. It was as though he had forbidden himself any
of those small, addictive rewards until some major part of the
construction was finished. Then he would sit down and have a slow,
solitary, contemplative little celebration. He yearned for walls and
ceilings now, protective spaces.

He drove around the square and
back to Cascom, through the green hills and the warm summer air. What
happened to any­thing as ephemeral as a magazine was hardly cause
for thought. He wondered why even Martin Troup cared, really, aside
from salary and benefits. It was all words, words, glossy
photographs, drawings, jokes, stuff blabbed out over and over again,
opinions that were standardly fashionable and amusing or
pseudo-shock­ing. It was hard to remember his own interest in
reading
Gentle­man,
or any other magazine, but then he'd
read it, usually, while sitting on the hopper, a captive position
that precluded deep seri­ousness.

What
suddenly did seem important was that a canary yellow Dodge was
following him. The car was so elevated in the rear by its springs and
oversized rear tires it looked like a tracking animal, nose down,
snuffling after him. It had closely tailgated the truck for the last
mile into Cascom, where it could easily have passed, and now followed
him up the mountain road. It was Lester Wil­son, of course, his
thick shoulders and wide head visible when the light changed on
curves and the shadows and reflections of branches or sky wiped
across the car's windshield. Luke first thought
cop;
was he
guilty? Then of the power Lester would as­sume, then of the
ragged, almost pitiable man who acted out his fantasies of authority.
There was no one certain way to treat the man if it came to a
confrontation. He might be properly civil and even meek toward this
fantasist, or cite the law, or use his class-given authority composed
of literacy, property and influence; but from beneath these
practicalities he heard a more primitive voice asking,
Are you
following me? Are you following me, you son of a bitch?