by Robert Bloch
Carrie Humphreys’ contemptuous sniff dismissed the possibility, and the subject. Abruptly her tone altered. “Are you and Mrs. Clark coming to the party tonight?”
“I guess so.” Warren brightened as he found the out he was looking for. “Which reminds me—I’d better get going. I promised to do some shopping while she goes to the hairdresser.” He started off before the bulldog could find another hold. “We’ll see you there.”
For a moment he felt her stare boring into his back, and then it was gone; the bulldog had retreated into its kennel.
Warren sighed. Was that the way he’d spend the day—making mountains out of molehills? Carrie Humphreys wasn’t a bulldog, just a lonely old woman; if he stopped to think about it, he’d known her equivalent all his life.
He remembered his small-town childhood, and a Carrie Humphreys who inveighed against bobbed-haired flappers and boys with long sideburns. Somehow it was always the hair that seemed to stir their apprehension. There had been a Carrie Humphreys who resented the World War II veterans returning home with crewcuts, a Carrie Humphreys who spent the Eisenhower era lamenting ducktails and Mohawks, dreading the stories of clean-shaven ex-Marines running amok in the streets with Gl-issue bayonets. And today the fear was focussed on the long-haired, bearded hippies.
“I don’t know what the world is coming to.” That had always been the Carrie Humphreys’ battle cry. But what, precisely, did it mean?
Warren considered the events of the Sixties, the early Seventies. An unpopular war, a war which many considered illegal, had divided the nation and led to moral laxity. The shocking assassination of a president. Draft riots, with conscientious objectors and evaders fleeing to Canada. The rise of black militancy and white alarm—inflation, profiteering, and a widespread corruption which eventually reached into the highest circles of government. And the millions who had entered military duty as clean-cut young men, returning home hairy and haggard. The drug culture had evolved from all these elements: exposure and easy access to narcotics in service, and loosening of controls on the home front.
Yes, that was the story of the Sixties and Seventies—a hundred years ago.
Because it had all happened before, happened then, during the Civil War and after. And what had Carrie Humphreys’ great-grandmother said? Had she been afraid of the long-haired, bearded men who came back from that war and took over the nation? They used laudanum and opium instead of heroin, fought with Bowie knives instead of switchblades, dropped out, turned to crime as a way of life.
And now history was repeating itself.
Or was it?
Not exactly, not entirely. Whatever her qualms might have been, Carrie Humphreys’ great-grandmother had walked down the neighborhood streets without peril. Those whom she regarded as toughs, ruffians and hooligans tended to confine their activities to the local Tenderloins and slum areas. And by far the greater number of them left the cities entirely, heeding the cry that Horace Greeley never raised.
Go West, young man. Go west and go wild there. Live in smelly squalor, unwashed, unkempt, unshaven and unrestrained. Fight among yourselves, rape and loot and plunder, rob stagecoaches, hold up banks, blow up trains—not in civilization but out in the wilderness, far, far away. Take up with whores, bed the squaws; miscegenation is no problem as long as it’s not happening here. Make your own rules, invent your own outlandish customs and jargon, join your gangs and lead the outlaw life. And when the posses form and there’s talk of law and order, move on again. There’s always a new frontier beyond the mountains.
But not now, not today. No more frontier, no more mountains—and the outlaws were here, in the molehills. Perhaps Carrie Humphreys had good reason to be afraid; perhaps his own uneasiness was justified.
Warren frowned, but he couldn’t banish belief with a grimace. The truth was that he did fear the young. Not all of them, not even a majority; nor was it merely a question of appearances, for he knew that actions spoke louder than beards. But something troubled him and it wasn’t just youth-envy: he still felt able to straddle the generation gap.
And yet the fear was there; analyzing wouldn’t alleviate it. Sure, I know what makes them tick, but that doesn’t help. I know what makes a bomb tick, too—but I’m still afraid of it.
Wrong. Warren shook his head. Fear was a luxury reserved for the living; he didn’t need it now. When that kid in the panel truck bore down on him he’d been startled, not afraid. Jumping out of the way was merely a conditioned reflex, an involuntary act. Given a moment to consider the situation, he would have stood still and let the truck run him down.
Wrong again. He had been afraid, still was afraid—not of dying, but of alternatives. Suppose the truck didn’t kill but only crippled, leaving him to a lingering life of pain?
No, he’d been right: the instincts initiating his action were sound. His way was best, safe and certain.
He smiled at the incongruity. Death was hardly safe in any circumstance. But it was certain. And being certain, there was no need to consider it further; not now, with only a few hours remaining. Better to spend the time taking one last look around, saying goodbye.
But to whom? There was no one here he felt close to, no one who’d miss or mourn him. Except perhaps—
Tom and Jerry. They were the closest thing to real friends he had here, or anywhere else. At least he could talk to them instead of to himself. It would help pass the time until he was sure Sylvia had left the house.
Time. Warren glanced at his watch, noting with surprise that it was almost noon. He was beginning to tire after all this wandering around under the hot sun.
Where was he—Elysian Avenue? Tom and Jerry lived on Parnassus, around the corner and halfway up the street.
He turned and started for the intersection. Yes, he’d drop in on them now, kill a little time. A man’s entitled to kill a little time before he kills himself.
NINE
High noon in Eden.
Goldie Schrift relieved Jennifer at the switchboard for her lunch break, and not a damn minute too soon. First thing Jennifer did was run to the can after drinking all that coffee. After that she headed for the employees’ cafeteria and got herself another cup.
Irene Marks was in the service room off the kitchen, opening the cupboard above the washer-dryer unit to see if she could find another vase for the coffee table.
Joe Marks sat in his den with the door closed. Not that Irene would ever think of coming in without knocking, but still you never know. And with the wall safe open and all that cash on the table, it paid to be careful. He’d always been careful, and it always paid; the cash on the table was proof of that. Sixteen thousand—sixteen-five—seventeen— He kept counting. Carefully.
Lulu and Homer wheeled a cart down the produce lane of the supermart. Homer was fidgeting; Lulu knew he was getting impatient but she stopped to finger the lettuce. She found a head that seemed crisp and firm, no brown spots. But can you imagine, fifty-nine cents? And not fifty-nine cents a head, mind you—fifty-nine cents a pound! Why, back home she had all the lettuce she could ever use, right in her own garden, and the seeds for the whole bed had only cost a dime!
Ed Brice sneezed. He sneezed regularly, whenever he smelled cosmoline. And that was once a week, when he cleaned his revolver. It’s best to be prepared, and those Commies are nothing to sneeze at.
Carrie Humphreys got tired of looking out the window so she went into the bedroom and turned on the TV—at least it was something to watch.
Dolly Gluck sat before her vanity mirror, putting the finishing touches to her hair. Then she raised her chin, tugged at the firm flesh of the throat beneath it. Not bad, not bad at all, and you couldn’t see any scars. But two grand, for Christ’s sake, just for the face lift! With that kind of money you ought to be able to buy yourself a whole new head. Well, maybe it was still a good investment. It sure as hell better be, because that’s all there is, there isn’t any more. Who’d said that—Ethel Barrymore? Before her time.
&nbs
p; Dolly giggled. At least there was somebody before her time. And you’d never guess, seeing that face in the mirror, just what her time really was. Damned good job, she looked like a million dollars.
She hoped Joe Marks would think so, anyway. Because he was the one with the million dollars. And if things worked out the way she wanted them to, tonight at the party—
Dolly’s hand began to tremble. Dammit, maybe she’d better do something about that. She was going to a brunch, and she’d better be careful, no sense blowing it because tonight was important, really important. But she had to get hold of herself, had to.
The trembling hand opened the vanity drawer and fumbled for what was hidden under the pile of hankies.
Roy Crile was doing his best not to look into the mirror as he stood before the closet door. Those wrinkled, heavy-veined hands knotting his scarf—it was hard to accept them as his own. And the face didn’t belong to him, either, with its sunken cheeks fringed with white hair, the mouth perpetually pursed over the false teeth. It was like being made up for amateur theatricals. Only this play was real, and it kept going on and on until the final curtain.
But he wasn’t going to think about that, not today. There was a whole world waiting outside, and a whole world waiting inside, for that matter. You don’t spend forty-odd years as a reference librarian without picking up food for thought. Useless information, they called it. Well, right now it was useful enough for his purposes.
The mind was a filing system, every bit as efficient as the one he’d instituted and maintained at the library. Everything catalogued alphabetically, ready for inspection. So forget about appearances; concentrate on realities. Think of something beginning with A or B or C. Like A for age, B for baldness, C for cirrhosis? No, that wasn’t the purpose of this little game of cerebral solitaire.
D, then. Daroga, a minor Persian official. Dryden—that would be Wheeler Dryden. Very few people, even here in southern California, seemed to know the name of Charlie Chaplin’s half-brother; not Sid, but the other one. Any more Ds coming up? What about the Dutch, who were, surprisingly enough, the chief foreign traders in Japan in the sixteenth century?
E for Eu, a count to be exact, and husband of the crown princess of Brazil in the days of its empire under Dom Pedro II. Fear of his ambitions led to the peaceful revolution which transformed the country to a republic. F for Facula, the name by which the ancient astrologers knew Aldeberan. And G for Goya and the mystery—the artist’s skull disappeared from his burial place and was never found.
Automatically, cross-reference took over and Roy thought of other skulls. The skulls of monkeys, for example. The wealthy Cantonese once had a custom of chaining a live monkey under a table with the top of its head protruding through a round hole. Gourmets used little silver hammers to beat in the skull, then picked at the living brain with chopsticks.
Revolting. But who was he to pass judgments? Old monkeyface, picking his own brain now.
Roy started to cough as he felt the scarf tightening around his throat. He loosened the constriction quickly with his fingers, then breathed easier. No sense choking himself to death—not on a beautiful day like this, with so much to do. He’d spent all those years in the dark, imprisoned behind the book stacks, and at last he was free to step into the sunshine. Whatever time he had left, he intended to make the most of it.
Now, with that in mind, he could face himself in the mirror. And he didn’t look so bad, not bad at all. Roy gave a final tug to the scarf, then winked at his reflection in the glass.
H for hungry. He’d better go.
TEN
“Warren—come in!”
Jerry stood in the doorway, arms akimbo, legs set wide apart, hair a gray-streaked mane. “You’re just in time,” she said.
“For what?”
“Brunch. Tom and I are having a few people over this noon.”
Warren hesitated. “Look, I was just passing by. I don’t want to intrude—”
“Come on!” Jerry’s arm—the strong brown arm of a tennis buff—tugged him into the hall. She tossed her mane and called over her shoulder. “Hey, Tom, look what this cat is dragging in.”
And there was Tom, looking, as usual, like walking death; tall, thin, hollow of cheek and eye, with the slow warm smile that seemed to live on his face, thriving in the midst of desolation.
“Great!” He nodded at Warren. “I was just making spiritual preparation for my wife’s soirée. Spirituous ones, too. Which reminds me, would you like a drink?”
“No thanks. I can only stay a minute.”
Neither Tom nor Jerry seemed to hear him. They led him into the living room and Warren had the feeling that he was being borne forward on a floodtide of conversation.
“I’m making my peace with God right now,” Tom said. “Because the end of the world is at hand. In half an hour we’ll be throwing Christians to the lions and liquor to the dogs—Jerry, why the devil do you do these things to me?”
“Keeps you from getting stale.” She nodded at Warren. “Whenever I detect signs that loverboy here needs a little excitement I try to provide a smidgin of mob violence, just to stir him up. Good for his work.”
“What about yours?” Warren said. “Don’t you have deadlines to meet? There seem to be so many holidays—”
Jerry shrugged. “Every day’s a holiday. Or would be, if the greeting card companies had their way. But I’m entitled to a holiday myself once in a while, even if it means working at night to catch up. As long as I stay on schedule they don’t care when I grind the stuff out. Tom’s the real artist in this family.” She nodded at her husband. “Why don’t you show Warren your new series?”
“But the liquor—”
“I’ll get it out. All I have left to do is finish making the dip.” She gestured in the direction of the hall. “Go ahead, both of you get out of my hair so I can comb it.”
Warren followed Tom down the hall, glancing through the doorway of the spare bedroom that Jerry used as her studio. It was bright and sunny as usual, with everything in order; aside from Jerry’s easel in the corner and the small pencil-sketches neatly pinned to the wallboard behind it, there was nothing to indicate artistic activity.
The den at the far end of the hall was another matter. Tom stood aside, waving him into a room redolent of turpentine, linseed oil, dammar, resin and fixative. No mistaking what went on here; every inch of wallspace, every easel and table surface was covered with canvasses in various stages of completion. And where no canvasses rested there were palettes, brushes, sponges, knives and paint.
Warren had been here many times before, but as always, he found himself impressed and oppressed by his first glimpse of this private world. It was a difficult world for any outsider to dwell in, and for a moment Warren regretted that he’d come.
Once again he gazed at the hanging canvasses, seeking out those which seemed familiar. And once again, despite familiarity, he felt a touch of nightmare.
“Let me sort some of these out for you,” Tom was saying, as he stooped and retrieved canvasses leaning against the side wall. Warren nodded, scanning the work already displayed, seeking the secret of the nightmare.
Subject matter? That was the obvious answer, but Warren had seen the work of Bosch, Dali, Ernst and Grosz without experiencing a similar reaction. Was it because Tom Norwood was an old-fashioned representational stylist? Because he painted his fantasies with almost photographic realism?
Here was a small pastel that might have been done for a standard medical textbook; a detailed, anatomically correct rendering of a fetus curled in a jar. Only on closer inspection did one notice Tom’s face and features, embryonic but recognizable, staring forth from the grotesquely enlarged head. And the tiny spiderweb of a title in one corner—Portrait Of The Artist As A Young Man.
Warren turned away to glance at witches streaming through the sky to the Sabbat. They were mounted not on broomsticks, but on nuclear warheads. He noted the Santa Monica Pier scene with its typical boardwalk
crowd surrounding a balloon vendor; the people had balloons for faces, but the balloon vendor’s wares, soaring from strings, consisted of human heads.
Cartooning disguised by draftsmanship? Warren frowned. No, there was more than grotesque humor here; something arising from the deeper vision of a dream. What were Tom’s dreams? Why did he choose to reproduce them realistically rather than in the abstract, Rorschach-test renderings which passed for modern art?
Warren thought about the revolution in technique. You seldom saw contemporary examples of realism any more, except for the swift, cynically executed daubs offered at “art sales” in the parking lots of suburban supermarkets. Youngsters with salesmen’s smiles, selling their pseudo-portraits of melancholy clowns.
Tom was different. He clowned on canvas, but the sadness was limned in his own face.
And yet he wasn’t suicidal, he survived; he and Jerry had found a pattern for a good life together.
Here, then, was proof that it wasn’t hopeless. If a sensitive man like Tom had found the secret, perhaps he could help Warren discover an answer for himself. No two lives are identical; all problems are individual. But if there was some clue, some key to a solution—worth a try, anyway.
“Tom, I’d like to talk to you,” he said.
“Sure.” The artist nodded as he arranged a series of paintings along the base of the side wall. “Be with you in a minute.”
Warren cleared his throat. “It’s hard for me to put it into words—”
“Me too. That’s why I paint.” Tom straightened. “Want to take a quick look at these first?”
Warren nodded, grateful for the reprieve. He needed a moment to put his thoughts in sequence.
“Here we are.” Tom gestured at the row of oils he’d lined up against the baseboard. “I call this my Renaissance period.”
And Renaissance it was—the tones of Titian, the line of Michelanglo, the intensity of Raphael. Yet the settings were modern, completely so, save for the basic concept. Tom had chosen the Second Coming as his theme.
