The Man in the Net (14 page)

They drove to the village. Automobiles were already parked for several hundred feet up the roadside from the church. As they left the car and started to walk through the darkness beneath the overhanging elm branches toward the Assembly Rooms, John could see people streaming in through the door or standing around in little groups, smoking. There was nothing to suggest his personal ordeal. The buzz of voices, an occasional laugh, a voice louder than the others, calling cheerfully, “Hi, Joe”—they were all ordinary sounds of a village summer evening. Even the extra activity of a community turning out to fulfil its democratic obligation gave no taint of threat to the atmosphere.

A woman in a pale dress hurried past them. Vickie called out, “Good evening, Mrs. Seely,” and the woman, glancing at them abstractedly, replied, “Good evening, Mrs. Carey.”

And yet, as they moved away from the darkness closer and closer to the lights fanning down from above the door to the church basement, John could feel the tension in himself and in the Careys. It was as if they were a lighted fuse creeping inch by inch closer to dynamite. They were almost up to the nearest group of loiterers. Suddenly, beyond them, in the center of the main street, John noticed a tall figure in a cop’s uniform, directing the traffic. Steve Ritter. In the same instant, the three of them came up to the lounging men. Brad was a little ahead. One of the men was laughing. He saw Brad and, still laughing, called, “Hi, Brad, how are … ?”

Then he saw John. His voice stopped. All the other men stopped talking too. Automatically, as if imitating the men in the meadow, they drew a little closer, forming a semicircle barring the entrance. Some quality of tautness in them instantly infected all the other groups standing around near the doors. There was an abrupt cessation of sound and a sense of bodies moving very slightly closer. Then, beyond, John heard a woman gasp and little sexless half-whispers began to rustle in the air.

“It’s him … It’s Mr. Hamilton … Mr. Hamilton … Hamilton …”

It all lasted hardly more than a second. Brad was still in front of him. Vickie was at his side. Brad moved forward toward the unbroken semi-circle of men and, as he did so, the men stepped aside for him.

“Hamilton … Hamilton …”

The vague whispers were still behind them.

Brad, glancing quickly at John, murmured, “Maybe this isn’t so good an idea?”

“It’s okay,” said John.

“Yes,” said Vickie.

They passed through the door and emerged into the brilliantly lit basement.

IN THE FIRST second, John saw the whole scene in exact detail as if it were a painting—the wooden voting booths along the rear wall, the long table at which the town officials, neat and self-important, in suits and neckties, sat on wooden chairs, and then, in front of them, the inhabitants of Stoneville—old men gnarled as tree roots, husky farmers, youths, housewives, girls in bright summer dresses —crowding the central area around the heavy wooden pillars which supported the church above. Over to the right, Mr. and Mrs. Carey, aggressively aloof, stood with the Morelands as satellites at their side. The Town Clerk— the dour old man who’d been sitting in the ice-cream parlor the night before—was on his feet, talking lamely, rustling papers and glancing down every now and then at them through steel-rimmed spectacles. There it all was, the placid New England scene, the congregation of the earnest partisans, the conscientious, the frivolously curious, gathered together to perform a civic function. It seemed the most temperate of climates, in which nothing more dramatic than a pompous speech from Mr. Carey against “innovations” could possibly flourish.

But the people who had been outside were crowding eagerly in now behind them, pressing them forward, bringing excitement with them. John was pushed against a girl he had never consciously seen before who was standing by one of the pillars. She turned to glance at him. Her eyes narrowed in avid astonishment and then she gasped. Simultaneously, it seemed, every head turned toward them. The girl’s gasp was taken up all over the room as if there was some weird, distorting echo. For a moment that strange sound, the hiss of escaping air, fluttered and then dropped into a silence which was total except for the drone of the Town Clerk’s voice. Intent on his duties, the old man hadn’t noticed anything. He stood peering through his spectacles at his notes, and his voice, sounding almost grotesquely loud now, went on.

“Well, I guess pretty near everyone of us knows what we’re here for and I guess pretty near all of us have made up our minds one way or the other. But before we put this to the vote, we’re throwing this meeting open so that any of us that feels he or she’s got something to say … that is …”

His voice trailed off. He had become aware that there was something wrong with the silence. He looked up from the notes, peering around, not able immediately to locate the source of the disturbance. Then he saw John. His jaw sagged and his eyes became identical with the other eyes. To John, it seemed that there was nothing but eyes watching him, boring through him—steady, bright, menacing in their lack of expression. He was intensely conscious of the threat, but, now that he was exposed to it and returning the challenge, he felt an unexpected spurt of confidence, because he despised them. If he’d been one of their own, they’d never be reacting this way. It was because he was different, a “crazy artist”, something alien which had always been resented by their narrow, parochial minds. He knew it and, by defying them, his self-respect had come back.

The voice of some child, invisible in the crowd, broke the silence. High and piping, it said, “Mr. Hamilton.”

The echo effect came again, rippling round the room. “Hamilton … Hamilton … The sound was muted, hardly more than a whisper, but it suggested a restrained roar. The Town Clerk, recovering himself, tapped the table with a gavel.

“And so,” he said, going on with his speech, “it’s up to me now as Town Clerk to declare this meeting open to any discussion maybe you folks want to put …”

John saw Mr. Carey throw up his hand with a military swagger.

“Mr. Carey…” began the Town Clerk.

Then, before Mr. Carey could speak, a man’s voice from near the door yelled, “I got a question. Where’s Mrs. Hamilton?”

Instantly the roar was unleashed.

“Where’s Mrs. Hamilton?”

“Where is she?”

“Where’s Mrs. Hamilton?”

Shout clashed with shout until all sound was merged into a zoo-like, unintelligible babble. The old Town Clerk was banging with his gavel. Two of the selectmen, one on each side of him, had risen and were shouting for order. But no one paid them attention. In the sea of faces, all turned in John’s direction, stretching up from the jostling, lurching bodies, he caught a glimpse of Emily and Angel’s mother from the post-office. Mrs. Jones was hardly recognizable, her eyes gleaming like the other eyes with the predatory mob excitement. A man at his left just beyond Vickie was hollering something. John could see his mouth open in a wide “o”, but in the cacophony he couldn’t distinguish a word he was saying.

He glanced at Vickie and Brad. The skin around Brad’s nose had gone whitish grey. Vickie caught his eye and smiled encouragement. That helped, and his anger and the new feeling of contempt for them all. He could handle this. He was sure of it. Just as the roar faded from its peak, he threw up both his arms above his head.

The effect was extraordinary. Instantly the tumult subsided back into silence—the earlier hard, brittle, watchful silence. The Town Clerk’s gavel banged down once more. The two selectmen, looking outraged and important, glanced around and then sat down heavily.

“All right,” said John. “I didn’t come here to answer questions. I came because it’s a town meeting and I’ve as much right as anyone else to come to a town meeting. But if anyone wants to ask me any questions about my wife—okay, go ahead.”

They hadn’t expected that. For a moment they were thrown back into a mood of awkwardness, almost of embarrassment. In a loud, booming voice, Mr. Carey began.

“This is an outrage. We are a civilized community. We have come here …”

Suddenly the ringleader by the door yelled out again, “Where’s Mrs. Hamilton?” and the words, like a rallying cry, brought the antagonism back to fever pitch, obliterating Mr. Carey.

“Where is she? … Where’s Mrs. Hamilton?”

A woman close to John clutched his arm. He could feel her nails digging into his flesh.

“Where’s Mrs. Hamilton?”

Silence came again—silence completely concentrated on John. He pulled his arm away from the woman’s nails.

“I don’t know where she is,” he said.

“He doesn’t know … He says he doesn’t know …”

Over the clamor a young man in a yellow sports shirt called, “Why was the suitcase on the dump?”

John turned to him, “I don’t know that either.”

“Why did you burn your blue jeans in the meadow?” It was the first man again, his voice loud, jeering, deliberately goading the frenzy.

The uproar was almost out of control now.

Over it, John started to shout, “I didn’t burn the blue jeans. Someone …”

But the tumult engulfed him. Dimly he could sense that not all of them were against him. Someone shouted, “Leave him alone.” The words were just distinguishable. Over in a corner, two rival groups had formed. Men were pushing and jostling each other. But the division of opinion only heightened the pressure. A woman’s voice, thin and piercing, shrilled above the others, “Mr. Hamilton, did you murder your wife?”

The room went mad then. One of the men near John lunged at him. Brad hit him before John could. The crowd was a pitching, lurching, chaotic mass. A woman screamed,

John heard the hard slap of a body hitting against a pillar.

Brad was grabbing his arm. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

In the grip of his savage, exasperated excitement, John wanted to stay and fight them all, but he knew Brad was right. He’d stood up to them. He’d shown them he wasn’t scared of them. He turned toward the door. Vickie was immediately in front of him, jammed against him, her face only a few inches from his. With a ferocious effort, she managed to twist around. A man grabbed at John again. John shook him off. Brad was lost somewhere. Vickie battled forward toward the door. Then three men lumbered toward John and instantly Vickie swung around throwing her arms around him, turning herself into a shield.

Grotesquely carrying Vickie in front of him, John pushed toward the door. As they inched their way forward through the hot, hostile bodies, he saw Steve Ritter ahead of them, coming in from outside. His eyes under the cop’s peaked cap were gleaming and he was brandishing his night-stick. The sight of him had an instantaneous effect. Almost immediately John heard the clamor behind them subsiding and, in a few seconds, the room was quiet again. It had all collapsed as precipitously as it had flared up.

He let go of Vickie. Together they struggled toward Steve Ritter. As they passed him Steve flashed John a broad grin.

“Well, John, boy, you should of took my advice and stayed home.”

Indignantly Vickie said, “You could have stopped it. Why didn’t you come in before? You must have heard all the racket.”

Without waiting for him to reply she drew John away out of the lighted area by the doors.

“The animals,” she said. “The disgusting animals.”

Brad ran up to them then. His shirt collar was ripped. Outside there in the peaceful village night, the ripped collar looked improbable as if it belonged in some other world.

Vickie said, “I’ll drive you back to our house to get your car.”

As she spoke, Mr. and Mrs. Carey came hurrying out of the doors.

“Vickie—Brad …”

They turned, waiting, while the Careys came up to them. Mr. Carey was panting. His face was a sort of purplish pink. Ignoring John, he glared from Vickie to Brad.

“What are you two doing? Why didn’t you come around to my house as arranged?”

“We were with John,” said Vickie. “And now his car’s at our house. We’re going to drive him back to it.”

“Without voting? Are you out of your minds? Go back in there—both of you. Stay for the vote. I demand it.”

“Demand!” Vickie returned her father-in-law’s glare. “What right do you have to do any demanding? You were the one who was so eager to drag John down to vote. You as much as anyone were responsible for all that disgusting havoc.”

Mr. Carey stared at her for one icy second and then swung back to his son.

“Brad,” he thundered. “Get back in there.”

The crude, tyrannical fury in his voice was astonishing. John had never seen the Careys stripped this way. And, as he glanced at Brad and saw the anxious, white-lipped expression on his face, he said, “Why don’t you go back? I’m all right.”

“I’ll be damned if I’ll go back,” said Vickie. “To hell with Stoneville. To hell with Lake Sheldon. I hope it sprouts motels on every square foot.” She put her hand on Brad’s arm. “Come on.”

Immediately Mr. Carey grabbed Brad’s other arm.

“Brad, I’m waiting.”

Mrs. Carey said agitatedly, “George, George, please. Don’t make a scene. Let the boy make up his own mind.”

For a moment Brad teetered between his wife and his father. Then, with a faint sickly grin at Vickie, he said, “Well, baby, after all. If you maybe took John back …”

Vickie’s eyes flashed with anger. Abruptly, dismissing him, she turned her back.

“But, baby, with the vote so close, with it all meaning so much to Dad …”

Brad’s voice faded. Slowly, self-consciously, he followed his parents back toward the Assembly Rooms. Without a word Vickie started hurrying up the road to the car. John went after her. They got in and Vickie started to drive back to the Careys’.

For a moment neither of them spoke, then Vickie burst out, “Sometimes Father makes me so mad I could kill him.” And then, as if defending her husband from some unspoken accusation of her own, “It isn’t Brad’s fault. He can’t help it if he’s under his father’s thumb. That’s the way he was raised, to worship him, the way his mother does. It’s disgusting being the wife of a Father’s Boy. Only half of your husband is married to you; the other half is married to his father.”