Finally, along about dusk, the chink was filled to my satisfaction, and I went back into the house assuaged by my thoughts.
Darkness came swiftly in that season. One moment you’d be in daylight, and the next moment you’d turn around and darkness had fallen.
When I entered the house I found the parlor lights lit, the Christmas tree aglow, and a cheery fire crackling on the hearth. My back ached from having worked stooped over all afternoon, and my hands and feet were numb from the cold. But there was the savory smell of Alice’s pea soup, thick and blistering hot in a pot on the stove. And though I was cold and weary and unsure of how I felt about anything, I was at least pleased with my day’s work.
Chapter Six
One morning just before Christmas I came down for breakfast and found Alice waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs. “Albert—Come quickly.”
I followed her into the kitchen. “What is it?”
“Albert—”
“Yes.”
She looked at me. “Can’t you smell it?”
“Smell what?” I sniffed, but aside from a variety of cooking odors, I could smell nothing unusual.
“Come over here.” She was standing at a corner of the kitchen at a point farthest from the stove. “Smell it now.” There was an urgency in her voice.
I pointed my nose upwards and sniffed around in several directions.
“I smell cocoa and bacon.”
“Oh, Albert.”
“I’m sorry, but that’s—” and then it hit me full in the face. She must’ve seen my expression change.
“It’s awful, isn’t it?”
“Horrible,” I sniffed again. “It’s only over here. You can’t smell it over by the stove.”
“What do you suppose it is?”
I shrugged but offered no answer.
“Smells like a public toilet,” she went on. “You think a pipe’s burst?”
“Perfectly possible in this kind of weather.”
I walked over to the sink and gave the spigots a full twist. The water drained freely. Next I went to the little powder room right off the kitchen and flushed the toilet. There was no back-up. I walked slowly back to Alice.
“Well, it’s not the pipes of the septic tank, thank heavens.”
She was staring own at the floor, pawing it with her feet. “It’s right here.”
“What?”
“Right under us.”
We looked down at the wide bare planks of the kitchen floor. They were a varnished, wormy chestnut, nailed down with studs and set in with widish spaces between them. It was the original floor and extremely handsome. Just below it, of course, was the crawl.
“Oh, it’s just that cat smell down there,” I said.
“No. It’s not that. I know that smell. This is different—it’s awful,” she went on. “Isn’t it?”
By then I’d put the whole thing together in my mind. I knew exactly what the source of the odor was, but I was determined to minimize it to Alice.
“It’s really not too bad.”
“Not too bad?” There was a look of disbelief in her face. “It’s vile. It’s unholy. And it’s coming from the crawl, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I think so.”
Suddenly a look of alarm crossed her face. “You think he’s all right?”
“I’m sure he is. I heard him go out this morning.”
“Well, if it’s a pipe, we have to get a plumber.”
“A plumber? Two days before Christmas? You must be joking.”
“Well, someone’s got to come, Albert. We can’t live like this. And I won’t permit him to stay down there in that—”
“I’ll go down and have a look,” I said. I wanted to get her off the subject of plumbers.
“When?”
“After I’ve had some breakfast.”
Her eyes widened and she put her hands on her hips. “You’re not really going to eat breakfast with that wafting around you?”
She had a point there. I looked at the area of the kitchen over which the smell had settled like a haze.
“Here,” I said, yanking her by the hand. “Let’s get out of this. We’ll have breakfast in the library.”
Later I went down to the basement. The stench was overpowering. I had to cover my nose with a handkerchief and grope my way in. It was fairly obvious that Richard was using part of the crawl as a latrine. Now that I’d sealed up the chink in the crawl, whatever air had ventilated the place before was cut off. The stench in several days’ time had simply built up to the point where it was an evil, choking vapor that had swelled and backed out of the crawl until it had filled the whole basement.
There was a dehumidifier down there that we used in the hot, humid months in order to keep the cellar cool and dry. It was also very effective in removing the kind of dank musky odors that are so common to cellars. I didn’t know how it would stack up against human excrement, but gasping for breath in that foulness, I tugged the machine out of the corner, plugged it in and flicked it on. When I’d done that and it had been running for a few moments, I dragged it over and started to set it directly in front of the crawl entrance when suddenly a voice boomed out at me from the black square. “What do you want?”
I nearly toppled backwards with fright. It was Richard, of course, but I’d assumed he was out. When I regained my composure, I tried to speak.
“Richard?”
“Yes—”
Gaping at the square speechlessly, I could sense him staring out at me from its other side.
“Didn’t you go out this morning? I was sure I heard the door slam.”
“I came back. I was cold.”
“Why didn’t you come and ask me for a heavy coat? I have an extra one upstairs.”
“Why’d you come down? What do you want here?” The tone of his voice was nasty. He seemed to be snarling at me. “Are you spying on me?”
“Spying?” I nearly choked on the word. “Spying?”
“What’s that thing for?” he demanded.
“What thing?”
“That machine.”
I looked at the dehumidifier, which was purring away.
“It’s a dehumidifier,” I blustered. “Mrs. Graves and I—”
“What’s it for?”
I felt myself quaking, but I was determined to say what was on my mind. “Well, frankly, Richard, there’s this awful smell. I’ve smelled it down here in the crawl before, and now it’s spread up to the kitchen. Mrs. Graves and I—”
There was a full pause while I groped for more words. It was horribly embarrassing. But then he spoke—this time, less defiantly.
“I haven’t been able to get out as much as I’d like. The weather—”
“I fully understand, but still there are simple rules of sanitation. What you’re doing is extremely dangerous. Not only to you, but to us as well. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t use the facilities upstairs.”
“I don’t like to bother anyone.”
“I assure you it’s no bother. The kind of thing we’ve had up there this morning is much more of a bother. If you feel awkward about coming up while we’re around, why don’t you wait till we go off to sleep?”
I waited, watching the square hopefully. There was no answer, and so I spoke again. “That would make Mrs. Graves and me most happy. In the meantime, I’m just going to set this dehumidifier right over here at the entrance to the crawl. I’m sure it will go a long way to improve the situation.”
I put the machine directly in front of the square and turned it on to its full power without any further protest from Richard. Then, when I had done that, I was left with nothing else to do. I cast around desperately for something else to say. “Are you feeling all right?”
“Fine.”
“Is it any warmer in there now that the chink is caulked?”
“It’s fine.”
Suddenly a picture of Washburn flashed across my mind, and before I could stop myself I asked, “Had any luck findi
ng a job?” I regretted it the moment it was out.
“I haven’t been out much lately. It’s been cold.”
“Yes, it has.” I heard myself agreeing with him eagerly. Then I was tempted to ask him if he’d been over to see Washburn. I was curious to see what he’d say. But I refrained from that ugly instinct. Instead, I barged off on a tack that even surprised me.
“Richard,” I said most gently, “Christmas Eve is tomorrow night. I was just thinking how nice it would be if you’d come up and join us for Christmas supper.”
I stared at the square, hopefully.
“Richard?”
“Yes.”
“Did you hear me?”
“Yes.”
“It’ll be very casual,” I went on sensing an advantage. “Just the three of us. And I know if you’ll come, Mrs. Graves will make something very special.”
Still I waited. “We’ve a pretty tree,” I went on. “And some presents. Come. It’s really high time you left this hole, if only for a short while.” I laughed nervously. “After all, you’ve been living down here for several weeks now, and we haven’t set eyes on you since the last time you came to check our furnace.” I laughed again. “Will you come?”
More silence.
“It would make Mrs. Graves and me very happy—” I waited. “Will you, Richard?”
“I can’t.”
“Why?” I asked, my heart sinking.
“I got nothin’ to wear.”
His reply was so simply and honestly answered, and as a problem so solvable, that I laughed with relief.
“Don’t worry about that. I’ll take care of that.” I clapped my hands together. “Well, then, it’s all settled. You’re coming.”
There was silence, which I took as a silence of affirmation. “Well, then—” I went on. “I’ll be here for you tomorrow night. Say about seven-thirty.”
I turned and started for the stairs. Then I turned and marched back to the square. “Richard,” I stood there addressing the void. “You don’t know how happy this is going to make Mrs. Graves. Thank you, Richard. Thank you.”
I hadn’t meant to be so grateful. I had no intention, when I went down there, of asking him to dinner. I had meant to simply go down and take care of the delicate business of the smell. And this I did, stating our position and a solution to the problem, all rather tactfully, I thought. But I hadn’t meant to leave there like an Oriental—backing out rearwards, with much bowing and wringing of the hands. But I was truly grateful, because all the while I’d been so certain he’d decline.
There was too, now, the business about the job. It was clear that he had not been using the days as I thought, to actively seek employment. Instead, he’d resorted to the subterfuge of slamming the cellar door early in the morning to make it sound as if he’d gone out. Then he’d slip noiselessly back into the crawl and remain there all day hidden from the world.
Had I thought some more about it, I would’ve been terribly bothered—more than bothered—alarmed. But as it was, I’d already forgotten about it in the midst of all the excitement about his coming for dinner.
By the time I got upstairs where Alice was waiting, I was almost bursting with a new magnanimity for Richard.
Alice and I went to the haberdashers in town that afternoon. We were like doting parents buying a graduation suit for our son. I suppose to the poor clerk—a Mr. Winslow—we must have appeared to be lunatics. First of all, we arrived without the person for whom the suit was being purchased, and then, with wildly different notions of what Richard ought to be dressed in for the occasion.
But Mr. Winslow was a plucky little spirit, not easily daunted. “May I ask,” said Mr. Winslow, “on what sort of occasion the suit will be worn?”
“Does that matter?” I asked.
Mr. Winslow smiled patiently. “It would certainly give me a better idea of what we’re looking for.”
“It’s for a small dinner party,” said Alice somewhat ambiguously.
“Ah,” said Mr. Winslow, lighting up like a billboard. “That’s a big help already.”
He pulled out racks of suits during the course of the afternoon while Alice and I squabbled back and forth over patterns and sizes. We could give him no tangible guidance as to size. Each time he brought us a new selection, he’d say, “Now, I think this might be just the thing,” and then smile cheerily. After we’d veto it for one reason or another, he’d scurry back to the racks just as bravely as ever.
After about an hour of this sort of punishment, beads of sweat began to glisten above his upper lip. “This would be so much easier,” he said pulling a little, “if you could just send the boy in to see me.” His voice was a little plaintive.
“That’s out of the question,” said Alice.
Mr. Winslow smothered a look of mild exasperation with his brave little smile. “May I ask for whom you’re buying the suit?”
“For our son,” said Alice.
“For a friend,” I said, at precisely the same moment, our voices colliding.
Mr. Winslow looked at us a little warily.
After about an hour and a half or so of this banter, we made our selection. It was a simple, dark navy suit. To that we added new shirt, tie, several sets of underwear, socks and shoes.
Mr. Winslow stuck bravely with us right to the end. I’m certain by the time we walked out of there he’d come to think of us as harmless lunatics who simply wanted humoring. He promised, however, to have the alterations done on the suit by the following morning.
“You see,” he said smiling just a trifle oddly at us, “it’s a little difficult altering for somebody who’s not around.”
“I’m sure you’ll do very well, Mr. Winslow,” said Alice as we walked out the door. “We have great faith in you.”
Once out in the street, Alice wanted to go to the butcher shop.
“I thought you’d already bought a turkey,” I said.
“I did. But turkey’s so dreary. I want to do something more festive.”
“What about goose? Nothing’s more Christmasy than goose. Right out of Dickens.”
She weighed the idea for a moment. “That’s closer to it. But still—” She paused for effect. “What about a roast pig?”
I thought uneasily, for a moment, about the cost of Richard’s wardrobe. Add to that the cost of a fair-sized roasting pig with all the fixings and a good bottle of port to boot. But by that time we were in front of the butcher shop, and suddenly I had a vision of the thing stuffed with chestnuts and basil dressing, the skin browned to a succulent crisp, a wreath of roast baby new potatoes all around it, and the apple stuck in its mouth—the whole gorgeous spectacle emerging from the kitchen on a sizzling platter.
“That’s perfect, Alice.” I was beaming as we marched in.
The butcher looked at us queerly when we’d placed our orders. “I ain’t had an order for one of them things in fifteen years,” he said. “What about a nice turkey?”
“We don’t want turkey,” I said. “We want a pig.”
“Sorry, I can’t help you, pal.”
“Do you know where we might get one?” Alice asked, crestfallen.
“Swertfergers,” the butcher suggested.
“Swertfergers?” I replied.
“It’s a pork farm. ’Bout twenty miles from here.”
He gave us directions and we were off the next moment.
It was nine o’clock and dismal and cold when we drove up to our house with the corpse of a dressed pig jammed into the trunk of the car, its snout oozing blood into the newspapers in which it had been bundled.
We were so exhausted from driving forty miles over narrow, icy roads that we could barely eat any supper that night. Still we couldn’t rest. The pig needed to be seasoned, the dressing had to be made, several pounds of chestnuts awaited hulling, potatoes wanted peeling, and Alice had to boil several pumpkins for the pie.
It was well past midnight when we climbed wearily up the steps and went to bed.
&nb
sp; The following morning I was back on the road early, shortly before nine. The night had been dismal and drizzling, and so I had the same awful business with slick roads I’d had the day before.
Mr. Winslow met me at the door. He appeared to be ecstatic. “I think you’re going to be very pleased,” he said over and over again, a little breathless as he bustled into the back and vanished behind an arras drawn across an archway.
When he emerged again, he was carrying the suit in both arms as if a body were already in it. He tripped across the floor toward me still saying, “I think you’re going to be very pleased.” When he finally presented the suit, it was with a flourish.
I wasn’t very pleased, but I made every effort to appear so. Such was my gratitude to the man for the enormous efforts he made in our behalf. The mere fact that he completed the alterations a day before Christmas was little short of a miracle.
But if I wasn’t very pleased, I was at least moderately satisfied, and Richard had finally a respectable suit of clothes with which he could present himself to prospective employers, as well as come to Christmas supper that night. You see—my motives went a little further than mere philanthropy.
When I left Mr. Winslow’s, I had under my arm a large rectangular box swaddled in cheerful red and green paper, with holly sprays splashed all over it. Winslow held the door open as I went out into the blustery noon. He was smiling and looking very satisfied. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Graves. I do hope your son enjoys the suit.”
At first I didn’t understand him. Then I did. I smiled and said, “I’m sure he will. Merry Christmas, Mr. Winslow.”
I walked down the street, whistling, with the box under my arm and nodding to perfect strangers. Before I left town I purchased the best bottle of port I could find.
I had left Alice at home in her kitchen. When I returned there I found her in a fever of activity, charging back and forth between her oven and her knitting. The good George III silver was out and scattered over a table where she’s been polishing it. She wore a bandanna around her neck, and there were beads of sweat on her forehead.
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