The Potter of Firsk and Other Stories (62 page)

“There may be difficulties…Speaking of Hugh—look at that.” He pointed to an enormous billboard glaring under the illumination of six floodlights.

This appeared in red and black, on a white background, in heavy portentous letters.

REAT NATIONAL GOSPEL REVIVAL
Fight Three Great Evils
with
Fighting Hugh Bronny
Join the Christian Crusade
Keep America
Clean, White and Christian
Fight Communism
Fight Atheism
Fight Blood Pollution
Massive Revival at the
Orange City Auditorium
Two weeks starting June 19

A picture depicted Hugh as a rock-jawed powerful giant, a hybrid of Abraham Lincoln, Uncle Sam and Paul Bunyan.

Don shook his head. “I never suspected Hugh had come so far!”

“He’s always been a worker…It’s rather revolting, isn’t it?”

Don nodded. “I suppose people must come to listen to him.”

“Evidently.”

They arrived at Orange City, and were immersed in the inevitable melancholy details attendant on Art Marsile’s death.

Art was cremated, his ashes buried in the orange grove, without funeral or formal ceremony, in accordance with his wishes. Hugh protested bitterly, until Art’s attorney and executor of the estate brought forth the will, and indicated a paragraph giving explicit instructions as to the disposal of his body.

As Jean had informed Don, the estate was to be divided between Jean and Hugh, “in any manner mutually agreeable to the legatees.” In the event that agreement could not be reached, the executor was instructed to sell the various properties of the estate at the highest possible figure and divide the proceeds between the legatees.

Jean, Don and Hugh discussed the situation the night Art’s ashes were buried. There were nine parcels of property: the house, the four hundred acres of desert, and seven orange groves of various acreage.

Hugh had prepared a memorandum of the value of the various parcels, and was ready with a proposal. “I suggest that you keep the house, since my work takes me far afield, and I have no need of it. To compensate, I will take the Elsinore Avenue grove, which is roughly the same value. These other groves we can divide like this.” He explained his plan. “The four hundred acres is worthless and I propose that we sell it and divide the proceeds.”

Don said, “It’s only fair to tell you, that we have reason to think there is oil on the property.”

Hugh frowned. “What sort of reason?”

“A reason you may or may not take seriously. On the night Art died we stopped by the house of a friend, who is also a medium. While we were there, a voice, purportedly Art, spoke to us. The voice told us that there was oil on the four hundred acres, to proceed with the drilling.”

Hugh chuckled hollowly. “And you are superstitious enough to give credence to this ‘voice’?”

“Superstition is belief in something non-existent,” said Don. “This voice existed. I heard it. It sounded like Art. Jean and I are willing to take the chance it was Art.”

Hugh shook his great head slowly. “I can’t agree with you.”

“In any event,” said Don, “I suggest that we sell one of the groves and use the money to continue drilling. It’s a gamble, yes—but most of the hole is already there.”

Hugh shook his head once more. “I have much better uses for money than pouring it into a hole.”

“Very well,” said Don. “You take the Frazer Boulevard Valencias, we’ll take the four hundred acres, and we’ll split the other parcels according to your system.”

Hugh considered his list. “Very well. I agree. I hope that I may be allowed to reside in the house during my stay in Orange City?”

“Of course,” said Jean. “If you’ll please take those posters and placards off the wall.”

Hugh rose to his full seven feet. “As you wish,” he said coldly. “It is your house.”

The division of the property was accordingly made. Don and Jean sold thirty-three acres of oranges, called the drill-crew back to work.

“Good money after bad?” inquired the foreman with genial good humor. “Take my advice, Mr. Berwick, don’t waste your money. This just ain’t the right formation. We’ve passed the Granville Blue shales—that’s where the Rodman Dome came in—and according to the geology you’ll be hitting granite in another five hundred feet.”

“We want to see that granite,” said Jean. “Drill on, Chet, and be ready to cap it when it comes.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Three days later gas began blowing up the hole, and on the fourth day Marsile No. 1 came in.

Chet said sheepishly, “I gave you good advice. You shoulda took it. But if you had, you wouldn’t be millionaires like you’re gonna be.”

VI

At ten o’clock in the morning Hugh came into the living room, wearing a cream-colored suit, long pointed yellow shoes. Jean looked up from the arm-chair where she had been sitting, lost in thought. Hugh put his Panama hat gently on a chair, slapped his leg with a newspaper.

“Well, sister,” he said jocularly, “oil on the property, after all. Why didn’t you let me know?”

“You weren’t here when the news came.”

“No. I was working with the Reverend Spedelius. It’s wonderful, wonderful! God’s gift to us. And we’ll put it to God’s work.”

Jean sat up in the chair, a faint cool smile on her face. “What sort of fantasy is this, Hugh?”

“Fantasy?” He held up the newspaper. “Surely this is true?”

“We struck oil on the four hundred acres, yes.”

“Then we’re rich.”

“It was the four hundred acres you didn’t want, Hugh.”

Hugh laughed hollowly. “What’s the difference? Perhaps I spoke unthinkingly—but I’m sure that our father intended us to share. That was the tone of his last will and testament…” he looked around the room, picked up a book. “‘A Compendium of Supernormal Phenomena’, by Ralph Birchmill.” He dropped it as if it were hot, glanced at Jean. “I don’t see the Holy Bible in the room,” he said, heavily jocose. He settled his great gaunt frame on the couch, knees almost as high as his chest. Don came in, sat down near Jean.

“Our father always insisted on an equal sharing of the good things,” said Hugh. “I assume that we will continue to do so.”

“Not in this case,” said Jean. “You’re a moderately well-off man right now, with your orange groves.”

Hugh’s hand slowly clenched on the newspaper. But his voice was gentle and low. “True, sister. But I have a need for money beyond mere material needs. I’m pledged to the furtherance of God’s will, to spiritual enlightenment of the people, to the Christian Crusade.”

“I’m sorry, Hugh. We’ve decided to put the money to other uses.”

Hugh held out his hands ingenuously. “What use could be more important than spreading the Gospel?”

“It depends on your point of view. We plan to endow a research foundation.”

“You mean this black magic, devil worship, occultism stunt?”

Jean said impatiently, “You know very well that we neither practice nor believe in black magic or devil worship.”

Hugh glanced meaningfully at the book on Don’s desk. He rose restlessly to his feet, paced back and forth across the room. “Exactly what kind of research do you intend, then?”

“I’ll be glad to explain,” said Don politely. “We want to bridge a very large gap in human knowledge. We want to attack what is commonly known as the supernatural with laboratory techniques. We want to make a large scale investigation of spiritualistic phenomena, with an eye to proving or disproving the existence of spirits, and perhaps the whole concept of the hereafter you see.”

Hugh stood back with an exaggerated gesture of alarm that nearly bumped his head on the door lintel. “Proof of the hereafter? Isn’t that rather beside the point? And presumptuous? Don’t you read your Bible?”

“I don’t care to argue theology with you,” said Don. “You asked me a question; I answered you.”

Hugh nodded. “Very well. I’ll ask another question.” He strode across the room, looked down at Jean. “This money, which you have acknowledged to be partly mine—do you intend to give it to me?”

“I haven’t acknowledged it as partly yours and I don’t intend to give you any.”

Hugh nodded again. “Do you have the effrontery to suggest that this hocus-pocus is more important than the Christian Crusade?”

Jean, leaning back in the chair, looked up at him coldly. “Last night we went to your revival meeting. We listened to you. Do you know why?”

“Of course I don’t know why. Unless—”

“No. We weren’t planning to throw ourselves before the altar. We suspected that this matter would come up, we wanted to hear you, with our own ears. We heard you.”

Hugh looked from Jean to Don, back to Jean. “Well?”

“I’ll speak with complete frankness,” said Jean.

“Of course,” said Hugh stiffly.

“There’s no point beating around the bush, or using ambiguous terms because they’re more polite. So—to be brutally blunt—I think you’re a fascist. You call yourself a preacher; you preach hate. You cloak your hatred in sanctimony, you bring out the worst in humanity. You asked people to come up and grovel, abase themselves for their sins—imaginary or otherwise. If there is a Creator, I’m sure you don’t speak for him.”

Hugh said ponderously, “That is not the truth. I preach the Lord’s word.”

“Whatever you call it, you sickened me. I won’t let you go hungry, but I’ll never give a cent to your Christian Crusade.”

“Very well,” said Hugh. “But what about the wishes of our father? He instructed us to divide the estate fairly between us.” He held up his great hand. “I know what you’re going to say. But surely you had secret information. You did not deal fairly with me.”

“I gave you every bit of information we had,” Jean said indignantly.

“You couldn’t expect me to believe that story—about the medium,” bleated Hugh.

“We took our chances. You refused to take yours. As far as I’m concerned the subject is closed.”

Hugh danced back, stood with his fist in the air. “Very well! I warn you that I intend to fight you and your blasphemous program in every possible way. The money came from the minerals God put into the earth; you should not use it to derogate the Word of God!”

“Why not let God do his own worrying?” Jean wearily asked. “He can stop it anytime he wants with a thunderbolt.”

“I am moving out of this sacrilegious place,” cried Hugh. “I don’t want your money. It stinks of the Devil!” He backed away. His voice boomed and rasped. “You will know punishment, you will know death and the awful agony of the hereafter!”

“Please go, Hugh.”

Hugh departed. “He’s a madman,” said Jean. “Or—is he?”

Don was pulling Hugh’s placards off the wall. “Filthy things…I don’t know.”

Jean put her arms around him. “Don—I’m afraid of Hugh.”

“Afraid? Physically afraid?”

“Yes…He doesn’t care what he does.”

“I’m not so sure,” said Don lightly. “I think he rather enjoys these dramatic scenes…But—I hope we don’t see too much of Hugh. He’s very wearing.”

VII

At five o’clock in the evening the telephone rang. Jean answered, turned to Don. “It’s a reporter from the Los Angeles
Times
.”

“Let’s talk to them. Publicity can’t hurt us, and might do us some good.”

Jean turned back to the phone, and twenty minutes later the reporter appeared at the front door. She gave her name as Vivian Hallsey—a young woman of twenty-five, not quite plump, with a round freckled face, alert eyes, a button nose and dark red hair, tightly curled. She stood in the doorway, looked from Don to Jean, smiled. “You certainly don’t look as I expected you to look.”

“What did you expect?” asked Don.

Vivian Hallsey shook her head. “Anything other than normality.”

Jean laughed. “Why shouldn’t we look normal?”

“I’m prejudiced,” said Vivian Hallsey. “I understand that you were led to drill this oil well by communication with the spirit world. I’ve always thought that only neurotic old women patronized mediums and fortune tellers.”

“Be that as it may,” said Don. “Will you sit down?”

“Thanks. How
did
you find where to drill for oil? If it’s through a spirit, which spirit? Because I’d like an oil well myself.”

Don explained the circumstances which led to the tapping of Marsile Dome.

Vivian Hallsey looked around the room and shivered. “It makes me feel strange.”

“What makes you feel strange?”

“The idea of spirits—everywhere. The spirits of the dead. Watching you. We’re never alone. It’s as if we all lived in glass cages…It’s embarrassing!”

“Not so fast,” said Don. “We still can’t be sure.”

“Sure of what?”

“That spirits exist. It’s a pat answer.”

“‘Pat answer’!” She looked at him incredulously. “You tell me this? You’re the one who just brought in an oil well, with the help of spirits.”

“I know,” said Don. “That’s the supposition. But it’s possible there are other explanations.”

Vivian Hallsey clutched her head in exasperation. “Exactly what
do
you think?”