The Almost Complete Short Fiction

by Don Wilcox

  Red waited in an alcove just offstage from the auditorium that was already humming with the noises of a packed house.

  “Red, dear, I’ve been looking everywhere!”

  Ruth Lee, looking altogether like a fairy, hurried up to him, again to greet him with kisses.

  “What are you backing away for, sap?” came the inevitable whisper.

  “Get away, fellow,” Red muttered. The girl’s eyes widened in surprise, but he hastily added, “I didn’t mean you, Ruth. I was just talking—er—”

  “To whom?”

  “To—ah—a little pet I carry in my pocket.”

  “A pet? Oh, I love pets. What is it?”

  “Just a pet—er—you know, a pet turtle. It was kicking around in my shirt pocket.”

  “Let’s see it.”

  Red reached into his pocket. His fingers came upon his spectacles. He bumbled, “Hmm. It’s gone. Got away from me.”

  “Don’t be silly, Red. A turtle couldn’t get away that quick.”

  “It wasn’t a turtle. It was a mouse. Yes—a mouse. You wouldn’t like it.”

  “Oh, I love mice. And I love you,

  Red Stephens. Gee, I’m so glad you’ve come. You’ve no idea how long it’s been.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Don’t look so sober, Red. This is our wedding day. Oooh! Do you wear spectacles now?”

  Red Stephens adjusted the glasses over his blinking eyes. “Like ’em?”

  “Mmm. Not bad. Makes you look a little too much like a doctor or a professor. Let me try them on.”

  “No—no. That wouldn’t do.”

  “Please.”

  “They’d ruin your eyes.”

  “Just for a minute—”

  “Huh-uh.”

  “Oh, Red, don’t be like that . . . What makes you so stubborn? You never used to be. Come on, please. Are you going to start a quarrel right here on our wedding day?”

  “I’m not starting it. I’m just saying these specs are bad—that is, they’re dangerous.”

  “Are they dangerous for you?”

  “You’d be surprised. Look, Ruth. Look in my eyes and tell me something. Have I changed much?”

  He looked from one to the other of her four faces as he asked her pointed questions.

  The first face laughed with him and he could have loved that face for the rest of his life without half trying.

  But at the extreme right was a babyish face that was still pouting because he hadn’t let her try the spectacles.

  Next to it was a countenance that was deep with worry and concern. Ruth Lee knew the task that was before him. She knew he was to fly off tonight on a mission that could easily mean death.

  When he asked her, point blank, “Are you worried about me,” this face quickly nodded.

  But it was the first face that answered, laughingly. “Of course not, silly. I know you’ll come through like nobody’s business. You’ll be as safe as that pet turtle in your shirt pocket—or was it a mouse?—or a figment of the imagination?”

  The laughing face kept the spirit of fun. But the cynical face next to it—that was the one that kept Red guessing.

  That face kept mocking him about the imaginary mouse. And other things too. It mocked him about his heroism. It mocked the crowds that cheered him. It expressed the very feeling that he himself felt toward any sham.

  Gazing at this face, he repeated his question: Had he changed much in the past three years?

  The skeptical countenance seemed to shriek, “Changed, indeed! You aren’t Red Stephens. I never saw you before. You’re only an imitation of the man I fell in love with—a phony hero.”

  And yet all the while her laughing face told him he’d changed very little.

  “Your hair is a trifle redder and your eyebrows have a new twist. Otherwise you’re just the same—except for being a few degrees meaner. But I love you just the same.”

  And she gave him a kiss to prove it. “You’ve changed.” Red ventured. “You kiss much better than you used to. Had much practice since I saw you last?”

  The laughing face chortled, “Red, what a silly question. You’re a scream.” Simultaneously the second face made a quick meaningful nod, as if to say, “You’re darned right I’ve had practice—plenty of it.”

  “Maybe we’ve both changed a little,” Red’s mischievous grin vanished in favor of a cool penetrating look, “People aren’t statues. They don’t stay the same from day to day. They keep changing all their lives. Sometimes we don’t even know ourselves from day to day. But if you’re willing to marry me—whoever I am—”

  He paused, looking from one to another of her facial expressions.

  “If you’re willing to marry me for what I am—”

  Her laughing face was nodding eagerly. The other three faces registered upon him like light waves on a sensitized surface. They were more than he could interpret at the moment. He mentally photographed them for future study.

  Five minutes later he took his seat on the speakers’ platform. Physically he was a lump of lead. Mentally he was a merry-go-round whirling at a dizzy speed.

  She was going to marry him—but why?

  Not because she believed he was Red Stephens. She was convinced he was someone else. Regardless of his looks, his ways were not the ways of Red Stephens. He even had the effrontery (her second face had said) to question her faith in him. Red Stephens never would have done that. He had always taken everything on trust.

  So, obviously, she was going to marry him for the good of the cause. She had probably told herself it would be a high crime to do anything that would give Colonel Moberly and the public a hint that he was not Red Stephens.

  The marriage for her would be a sacrifice, then, and a sham.

  But if she should change her mind—or speak her mind—the mind that her second face had revealed so plainly—

  Red shuddered. He looked out over the packed house. The crowd was cheering. His elbows froze against his ribs.

  Faces—faces—faces!

  “I’m sick,” he gulped.

  “What’s wrong?” the colonel snapped.

  “Those faces . . . I can’t go through with it.”

  “Sure you can,” the colonel said savagely. “Listen to them cheer. They’re waiting to hear your voice. Play up to them.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because—because they act as if they really meant it—”

  “Of course they mean it.”

  “You’d think those were their real faces—faces you could believe in—”

  “Real faces? Man, you are bats in the belfry. You’re not yourself.” The colonel drew himself up sternly to divest himself of a lecture. “Something’s happened to you, Red Stephens. You’re sure a different personality from the one they used to write up in the Sunday papers. You’ve had the reputation of being the most trusting soul that ever walked out on the U. S. army—”

  “Huh? Walked out?”

  “But you’re not that today. Oh-oh—on your mark. It’s nine on the dot.”

  Colonel Moberly rose and sailed into his introductory speech to the waiting throng.

  Red brought the spectacles up toward his eyes, but his hands quivered so badly that he put them away. “I can’t. I can’t,” he muttered to himself. “After all I’ve seen of phony faces, I can’t.”

  “Take it easy, buddy.” That friendly whisper.

  “Easy, hell.” Red swallowed and choked. “If I were invisible, I might. Have you stopped to think what’s back of that sea of faces? No—because you don’t have a speech to make. But I—What’s he saying?”

  Red broke off with his sticky gurgling to listen to the colonel’s introductory remarks: the past history of the now legendary Red Stephens.

  “These are the facts about this remarkable man,” the colonel was saying, “facts that are familiar to all of us . . .”

  Red listened breathlessly. The legend unfolded: the career of a soldier stationed in
the Philippines before America had felt any threat of war. A brave and sturdy young man, peculiar in one respect. He invariably trusted everyone. He took everything he was told at face value.

  That, the colonel said, had been Red Stephens’ weakness. It got him into a sharp dispute with his superiors. They tried to teach him that the Japanese warlords could be depended upon to use treachery and lies, and that he and every other soldier must be ready.

  But Red Stephens hadn’t swallowed it. He didn’t wish to have to disbelieve anyone. It had been a matter of principle with him. Then the breach between him and his superiors grew until he argued himself into the position of a conscientious objector.

  Eventually he was honorably discharged.

  Still he was determined to be useful to the United States army. How? By losing himself in the jungles. By learning the Pacific islands and their peoples.

  And so, after sending a promise to his sweetheart that he would marry her if she would come across the Pacific to him, Red Stephens had devoted himself to his chosen task.

  And now that the war had come he had already proved the merit of his undertaking. Three times in this first year of war his talents had touched off military miracles.

  Then he had disappeared, not to be seen for weeks. He had, in fact, been given up for lost—until our own Hester Wembridge (here the colonel waxed most eloquent of all), our good angel who has devoted her energies, her brains, and her fortune so generously to the cause of the Allied nations—had the good success to find him. As everyone knew, the colonel said, Hester Wembridge’s friendship with certain island natives was the factor that had made his rescue possible.

  And now tonight this hero of heroes, who was soon to set forth again on a mission more perilous than any preceding one, would stand before this assembled multitude and deliver an address.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the soldier of the hour.”

  The colonel bowed graciously and turned to Red Stephens.

  Red took his position. The applause was like prolonged thunder.

  Red bowed. The bow came easy—so far so good—but bringing his head up required all the strength he could muster, for the blood had chased out of his body, it seemed. As he straightened he found himself looking out over the sea of faces again. Faces, faces!

  His knees buckled. The typed speech was waiting to be read. But there was a traffic-jam in his throat.

  “I want to faint,” he gasped under his breath.

  “Don’t do it!” Longworth’s whisper had the snap of a military command. “Open your mouth and give ’em the works.”

  Red opened his mouth but his voice wouldn’t come.

  He made three false starts.

  Then a whispered, “Okay, buddy, keep up the jaw work,” cracked the deadlock. Red moved his mouth, and the invisible Longworth, reading over his shoulder, shouted the speech into the microphones . . .

  The hour’s program was over. Before Red knew it, all the dignitaries were slapping him on the back, telling him it was a marvelous job.

  “I must say, I’d forgotten what a fine mellow speaking voice you have, Red,” said the colonel, shaking his hand.

  That inevitable whisper, “Tell the man thank you.”

  “Thanks,” Red Stephens murmured weakly, adding under his breath, “and the same to you, Longworth.”

  “I got you over that hump,” the invisible Englishman admitted. “But next comes your wedding. I can’t handle that for you, buddy. That’s up to you.”

  CHAPTER VIII

  The organ was playing a soft prelude. The few hand-picked guests were whispering with an air of expectation. In the semi-darkness outside the chapel door Red Stephens clutched the hand of pretty Ruth Lee.

  He didn’t want to let that hand go. But he mustered his stubborn determination. This wedding mustn’t happen.

  It mustn’t happen because he—whether he was Red Stephens or someone else—was not going to let this girl make a marriage of sacrifice.

  In the past few minutes Longworth had come back to him with another message. The invisible friend had done some more eavesdropping and had picked up a secret conversation between Ruth Lee and—of all persons—Hester Wembridge.

  “I’ll marry him,” Ruth Lee had said, “but you must know, Miss Wembridge, that he is not the real Red Stephens. He’s like a twin brother. Almost Red Stephens, but different. His eyebrows aren’t right. His hair is too red. And his confidence in me is completely changed.”

  “And still you’re going to marry him?” Hester Wembridge had smiled. “I don’t blame you. I’d like to marry him myself.”

  “I’m doing it so no one will lose confidence in him. It would be a crime to let all this hero build-up come crashing down. But who is he? Where did you get him? And what will he do when Colonel Moberly takes him into danger, depending on him?”

  “I can’t answer those questions,” Hester Wembridge had replied. “We’ll have to wait and trust. Confidence has worked miracles. I’m banking on confidence to win this military expedition.”

  When Longworth reported this conversation, Red Stephens had retorted bitterly, “She doesn’t mean win, she means lose. But this wedding—are you there, Longworth? Stay with me.” During these exchanges Red was silenced abruptly to discover that Ruth Lee was standing close by him, watching his lips move.

  “What are you mumbling about?” she asked.

  “Er—just practicing saying, ‘I do’.”

  “I thought I heard you say the name Longworth.”

  “Oh. Maybe I did. He’s a friend. He should have been my best man.”

  “Why didn’t you ask him, Red?”

  “Why—ah—he’s a delicate fellow. I wouldn’t want him to pass out in the middle of the ceremony.”

  “I used to know a Longworth,” Ruth Lee said, growing reminiscent. “I met him when I first started singing at the Wembridge Recreation Halls. I’ll bet it’s the same Longworth.”

  “Not likely. I met this one in Singapore.”

  “Red!” the girl exclaimed. “You never told me you’ve been to Singapore. How’d you happen to go there?”

  “I don’t remember,” he replied honestly.

  “I don’t understand you at all, Red Stephens. You say the strangest things. And you never talk about those good times we used to have back in America.”

  “I’m all foggy, Ruth. I don’t think you ought to marry me.”

  The girl scolded him thoroughly for that remark. Such a silly thing to say, right when they’re starting the wedding march.

  Just before they parted to march to the altar with their respective escorts, Ruth ejaculated, “Longworth! Now I know.”

  “What?”

  “Where you got that picture of me. I knew I hadn’t given it to you. I couldn’t have. It was taken since I came to Australia.”

  “You must have thought a lot of Longworth, giving him your picture.” Red wished he’d had the spectacles on for that remark.

  “He’s a swell egg, all right. I hope after we’re settled down he’ll come to visit us.”

  “Don’t worry, he won’t even wait till we’re settled.”

  “Gee, that’s great to know you know him too,” Ruth said. “He’s one pal that’ll never—let you down.”

  “You hear that, Longworth?” Red whispered tensely, as soon as he had left Ruth to take his place for the entrance. “Now you don’t dare let her down—not at a time like this. For gosh sakes, do something.”

  “What’ll I do?”

  “Anything—just so she won’t have to marry me.”

  “Remember, I can’t pick her up and run off with her unless I first turn visible.”

  “Who said anything about picking her up?” Red snapped. “Keep your hands off her,”

  “All right, buddy. Don’t get sore. You name the medicine and I’ll take it.”

  “Listen, Longworth, there’s an electric switch just inside the first entrance. Go back there. Turn visible for a minute, and—”


  “I’ve gotcha, buddy. The air raid alarm.”

  The ceremony was in progress. Red stood like a statue. The lovely girl stood beside him. Her face was almost as radiant as the scintillating jewels that gleamed in her hair.

  “Do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

  Red caught his breath. He glanced about uneasily. Ruth was smiling up at him with all the confidence and happiness that one face could hold. As for her other faces—thank goodness, his spectacles were safe in his pocket.

  “Do you take this woman—”

  Ruth’s smile faded. The silence that followed the repeated question caught the whole chapel in its grip.

  Red couldn’t stand that silence. He broke into a spell of coughing. Another moment and everything would be all right.

  For a third time the question was put to him. He gulped, clutched his throat, made sounds like nothing human.

  Ruth nudged him. “If you can’t talk,” she whispered, “just nod. He’ll understand.”

  Red changed his act. He put his hand to his ear and turned his head from side to side.

  “Didn’t I—didn’t I hear an air raid alarm?” he mumbled.

  “You didn’t,” Ruth snapped angrily. “Now answer the man. Do you take me or don’t you?”

  “I—I do,” said Red Stephens.

  He practically turned to ice. He had done it.

  He was still ice a moment later when, vows completed and the ceremony finished, the tardy air-raid alarm clanged. The crowd went scurrying for shelter. But Red Stephens was frozen to the spot.

  Mrs. Red Stephens stayed at his side, as a loyal bride should. But she was wearing her second face—the cynical one—and he didn’t need his spectacles to see it.

  CHAPTER IX

  On the stroke of midnight Colonel Moberly and his party took off for the island of G. The four small planes carrying his staff and equipment roared into the black sky.

  A fifth plane followed.

  Shortly before daylight the squadron landed safely on the southern shore of the island.

  There, in the edge of the jungled forests, a native village was secluded—the same village Red Stephens had seen two nights previous. On this beach under the blaze of flashlights he had been identified by these native as their hero and friend of months previous—the one and only Red Stephens.