Crawlspace

by Lieberman, Herbert

  Chapter Eight

  We had no hint of the trouble that was to come to us until the early spring of the year—those early days of March when the ground is still hard, when it’s warm in the sun and cold in the shade. Then the buds on the trees, still closed tight, stand out on the branches like tiny green jewels, there’s a sense of the earth moving beneath your feet, and you can smell things starting to grow.

  Those are the days when people begin to think about lawns and gardens and taking down storm windows. And, of course, Alice was thinking along those lines too.

  It was our custom to bring Richard Atlee to church with us each Sunday. Mind you, we knew nothing of his religious life. I tend to think he had none, and conversion is the last thing that interests me. But at church, he enjoyed the songs, and in his odd croaking voice, which I always found so curiously touching, it was a great pleasure to watch him singing from the hymnal and looking around at people—the sun streaming down through the clerestory onto his great wreath of hair. For one who was generally tight as a clam, he had the capacity to give himself up completely to song. I think it had some liberating effect on him, and being witness to it was a source of no small pleasure to Alice and me.

  Up long before anyone on Sunday mornings, he would bathe and attend rather more scrupulously to his toilet than on weekdays. Next, he would put on a fresh shirt and tie and of course the suit I’d bought him for Christmas. He was ready to go an hour or so before Alice and I were even up. When we’d finally come down, we’d find him sitting all scrubbed and brushed and anxious in the parlor. And while we’d have our breakfast, he’d be outside dusting the car.

  I’ve already mentioned a certain mocking attitude we sensed from our fellow parishioners when we first brought Richard to church. In the weeks that followed, the mocking amusement turned to a chilly remoteness. Then finally, one Sunday, at the conclusion of services, as we were filing out the door, waiting to greet the pastor, instead of shaking my hand he smiled very warmly and stopped me.

  “May I have a word with you, Mr. Graves?” His name was Reverend Horn.

  “Of course, Reverend,” I said and waited there for him to speak.

  “No—in my study, if you will—”

  “Certainly.” I turned to Alice. “You and Richard wait for me in the car. I should be along shortly.”

  When they left I stood aside and waited for Horn to finish greeting the rest of the parishioners.

  Later, following him back to his office through the empty church, our footsteps echoing around the vacant pews, I imagined that he was going to ask me for money for some charity or church function and in my mind I was already computing a figure that I could afford to give without feeling too much of a pinch.

  After we’d settled in chairs and exchanged brief amenities, he offered me peppermints from a bag he kept in his desk. “Who is this boy who comes to church with you and Mrs. Graves?” he said quite pleasantly.

  “His name is Richard Atlee, Reverend. He lives with us. We’ve taken him in.”

  “I know,” he said, smiling more pleasantly than ever and twisting in his chair. “Do you know anything about him?”

  “Very little. He’s not overly communicative.” I laughed a little apprehensively.

  Horn leaned back in his chair and locked his fingers over an ample paunch. “Isn’t that a bit unwise—opening your doors like that to a perfect stranger?”

  “He’s hardly a stranger, now, Reverend.”

  “Yes. But he was once. And you say yourself you don’t know very much about him.”

  “Do I have to?” I said, smiling confidently. “We feel in no special danger.”

  I can still recall the large, well-shaped head nodding as I spoke. When I finished, he shifted in his chair. “I don’t want you to be upset by what I tell you now.” He spoke in the most earnest and friendly fashion. “But then I’m sure you’re aware there’s been talk here.”

  Of course I’d been, but I wasn’t going to let on. “Talk?”

  “Yes. Talk.”

  “No. I’m not aware.” We were both silent as his eyes fixed me through rimless spectacles. “What sort of talk? Unpleasant talk?”

  “Of a sort;”

  “I can’t imagine why. What cause has he given?”

  “Oh, it’s not so much cause, Mr. Graves—”

  “I assure you, the boy’s behavior has been exemplary.”

  “I don’t doubt it. But still—”

  “Still—” My voice was curt. “What else is there?”

  “Now make no mistake. What I tell you now is not the result of a rash decision, but carefully and most painfully considered.”

  “Yes?” I could barely suppress my impatience.

  “The presence of this boy here each Sunday has had a most disturbing influence on several of the members of this congregation.”

  “Disturbing influence?” I thought I’d laugh. “What could he possibly have done to have any influence whatsoever?” I suspect at this point that Horn sensed an explosion. His manner became more conciliatory. “It’s not so much the adults I worry about, you see, Mr. Graves. But there are children here of an impressionable age.”

  I was speechless as he rattled on.

  “He makes, you will admit, a somewhat unorthodox appearance.”

  “Well, he doesn’t look like everyone else around here, if that’s what you mean—”

  And it went on that way, back and forth, for twenty minutes while the air heated up and we badgered each other politely. After a while I just sat there like a smouldering rag, while the whole thing took on a kind of horrible unreality. We ceased talking to each other and started talking at each other and when I left, I went with an ultimatum.

  “I’m afraid I must ask you not to bring him here any more, Mr. Graves.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “I’m very serious. You and Mrs. Graves are still of course perfectly welcome. But—”

  “I understand—”

  “You understand my position?”

  “Perfectly.” I snapped. “All too well.”

  “Personally, I find what you’ve done admirable.”

  “Yes. A bit like the Good Samaritan, say?” I rose to go. “Thank you very much.”

  “Try to understand.” He looked genuinely pained. I think he’d been expecting instant docility and I’d surprised him.

  “I understand very well,” I said. “You couldn’t have made it clearer.”

  His hand rose in farewell. It was one of those gestures churchmen use when they want to appear benevolent. It looked merely idiotic and as ambiguous and mealy-mouthed as the man who’d made it. “I trust I shall see you next Sunday,” he said.

  “Very frankly, Reverend, I don’t know that you will.” I turned to go.

  He called after me, “I urge you to find out something about this boy before you go much further with him.”

  I didn’t even pause to acknowledge those last words. I merely closed the door behind me. And so it was.

  There was nothing harsh about it. It was all very cordial and civilized, and that made it all the more rancorous to me.

  When I got outside in the street Alice and Richard were waiting there in the car. The moment Alice saw me, she could tell something was wrong. I got into the car without saying a word, started the motor instantly, and we drove home. Richard remained wonderfully oblivious to the whole thing. He sat in the back wedged in amidst the grocery bundles we had picked up on the way home. At one point he started to hum “Nearer My God to Thee” while along the road the tight little buds of trees were just beginning to open.

  I didn’t know what course of action I would take until I got home that day and discussed the entire matter with Alice. Richard had changed from Sunday clothes to his work clothes and disappeared out back. Then, with my voice trembling and my cheeks flamed, I laid the entire business out to her. It didn’t take us very long to make up our minds about a course of action. Shortly after, I was able to compose a
brief letter to Reverend Horn.

  Dear Reverend Horn:

  Since I feel closer to the original teaching of the Lord in the presence of our young house guest than I have ever felt in your congregation, I must regretfully tender my resignation from it.

  I wish to assure you that my faith in our Lord and His Church remains undiminished. But as to the men whose duty it is to minister to His flocks, I must sadly report that as a result of our discussion today, they have dropped sharply in my esteem.

  I shudder to think of the kind of hospitality the infant Jesus and his parents would have been afforded by your parishioners had they shown up here today instead of to that manger in Bethlehem so many years ago.

  Yours very truly,

  A. Graves

  So it was. I took that step and took it happily, convinced as I was of the rightness and justice of my decision.

  I mark that day as a turning point in our lives. From that time on, we left the fold of our fellow man behind and began to live exclusively for and by ourselves.

  Still our lives remained outwardly unchanged. We maintained the same routine we had before our breech with the church. We saw no people socially, but then we seldom, if ever, did. We continued to go to town two times a week to do our marketing. We still exchanged civilities with local merchants and clerks. We nodded to people on the street. The only change that came about was the manner of our weekly worship, and that didn’t really change, either, since we continued to worship on Sundays. But instead of going to church, our home became the church, and there on Sundays the three of us said prayers and sang psalms while a benevolent morning sun streamed into our parlor.

  If there was indeed any significant change, it wasn’t outward. It was rather a change that took place within the three of us. Along with the sense of growing isolation, there sprang up between us a sense of interdependence. We lived by helping and caring for each other. In short, we lived as though we were the last three people on earth, and quite frankly, it didn’t seem to bother us at all.

  Chapter Nine

  Along about mid-March we had a visitor.

  Alice and I were in the garden turning soil and raking up the debris left by winter—broken twigs and dead leaves, mingled with the desiccated carcasses of birds and small animals that had perished in the icy blasts. It was late afternoon. Richard, as usual, was still off in the woods. I was in the midst of hauling a sack of dead leaves and twigs to a compost heap we have out back. It wasn’t a heavy sack, just the sort of mildly strenuous thing the doctors say is very good for a man in my condition.

  Just as I reached the heap, a horn blasted in the driveway, and I heard Alice cry out. I turned just in time to see my nephew, Wylie Crane, climbing out of a car and Alice running toward him. When I reached there, he was hugging her and at the same time waving to me.

  “Hi, Uncle Albert!”

  “For God’s sake, Wylie, you might’ve given us a little warning.”

  “I didn’t know I was coming myself, until about twenty minutes ago. I was on the throughway, saw your exit, and got a yen to see Aunt Alice.”

  Alice cooed and kissed him again. I made a dour face. “But of course not me?”

  “Most of all you, Uncle Albert.” He threw his arm around me and we all laughed.

  Wylie was attending a polytechnical college in a large city to the north of us. It was his custom to stop off and visit for a few days at least once a year, either going to or coining from school. Generally he’d write or call to warn us. This time, however, he hadn’t. But, as always, it was a great pleasure to see him. He was a delightful young man of about nineteen, the image of my sister Blanche, who, of five brothers and sisters, was my great favorite. Now, since her death, whenever I look at Wylie, and particularly when he laughs, I can see Blanche laughing in his eyes. When she died, Wylie grew very close to us, particularly to Alice, who became almost a mother to him.

  I reached into the car and grabbed his bag. “You’re going to spend a few days, aren’t you?”

  He looked back and forth at each of us. “Will it be all right? I mean—just barging in and all like this—”

  “Frankly it’s going to be a great nuisance,” I said, throwing my arm around him. “But we’ll muddle through.”

  “Oh, don’t pay any attention to your uncle,” Alice said. “Have you eaten?” She locked her arm in his and started to drag him toward the house. Wylie saw me lift his bag. “Let me take that, Uncle Albert.”

  I waved him away. “You have your fishing gear, I hope?”

  “In the car.”

  “Good. We might just as well go up and try the stream tomorrow. I haven’t been out yet this season. How’s your father?”

  When we reached the house, I saw Alice turn and look at the washline just behind the kitchen. Dangling from it was a pair of Richard’s overalls dancing in a playful breeze. They had a strangely foreboding look hanging there disembodied and swaying slowly back and forth against the sky. The moment she saw them, a green sickish look crossed her face. “Oh, Albert.”

  I knew exactly what she was thinking. The room we’d fixed up for Richard was the room Wylie always slept in. Now there was the sticky problem of sleeping accommodations and all that.

  Wylie sensed that something was up. “What is it, Aunt Alice?”

  “Nothing at all,” I said, dismissing it with a wave of the hand. “We have a little surprise for you, Wylie. Don’t we, Alice?”

  The business of sleeping was straightened out very quickly. We had no intention of displacing Richard during the course of my nephew’s visit. We had a cot upstairs in the attic, and that was to be set up in the parlor for Wylie.

  Their first meeting took place at supper. Wylie was upstairs having a bath when Richard came in, earlier than usual. He seemed very buoyant, full of good spirits, and unusually talkative for Richard Atlee.

  He’d been in the forest all afternoon and later back in the bog. It seemed he’d found a cave there that had gone almost a hundred feet underground. He’d measured its depth by carrying down a full spool of string with him.

  “I come across it a couple of days ago,” he said, “and brought back string today.”

  “What’d you see down there?” I asked.

  “Nothin’ much. Bats and things.”

  Alice, puttering over the oven, made a sound of revulsion.

  “There’s a stream down there, too,” Richard went on excitedly. “I could hear it right under my feet.”

  “See any other signs of life?” I asked.

  “It was too dark. But there are signs of bear. Probable hole up down there for the winter.”

  Alice’s eyes widened. “And you went down there?”

  “They’re all out now,” he said, and smiled a crooked little smile. Smiling a bit now and then was one of the more recent developments in him.

  “I’d love to see it,” I said.

  His eyes glowed. “Would you?”

  “Never mind,” said Alice. “Stay out of there, the two of you. For your own good and my piece of mind, as well.” She thrust a relish tray at Richard. “Here. Put this on the table.”

  I’ll never forget his face when he saw the fourth setting. I was sitting almost directly opposite him when it dawned on him that there was something different in the design of the table. I hadn’t mentioned a word about Wylie to him. Not intentionally, mind you. I’d simply forgotten it in the excitement of the cave story.

  At first it was rather funny—that look of puzzlement and disbelief on his face. I was just about to tell him, but it was too late. Suddenly there was Wylie’s footstep on the floor above and then the vital sound of boyish steps bounding downstairs. Richard half rose from his chair. In the next moment Wylie turned the corner and peered in. We’d told him as much as we could about Richard, and now, scrubbed and with a flush of good health all about him, he entered the parlor and walked directly to him, smiling with a hand extended. “Hi.”

  Alice entered with a platter just in time to s
ee Richard’s jaw fall and his eyes widen to an awesome size.

  “Richard,” I said, leaping into the breach, “this is my nephew, Wylie Crane.”

  But by that time the damage had been done. You could see it all over his face. Resentment rushed in where surprise left off. When we finally sat down to dinner, Richard kept his eyes lowered and looked at everything on the table with suspicion. He was like a man who suspected that his food had been poisoned. He’d been elected to die, and so he sat down now to supper with all of his poisoners.

  Supper was a disaster. Several attempts were made at dinner conversation—all abortive. Wylie sensed the need of a special effort and extended himself gallantly.

  “You’re not from around here?” he asked with the best of intentions.

  “Nope.” Richard said, scowling into his plate.

  “I didn’t think so,” Wylie said. “You sound Western.”

  “Uh-huh,” Richard said and went on chewing. Then there was silence and all I could hear was the sound of that chewing—quick and angry—while his larynx went bobbing furiously up and down.

  “Are you?” Wylie went on undaunted.

  Richard stopped eating, his knife and fork poised in midair. “Am I what?”

  “Western.”

  “I said I was.”

  “Oh,” said Wylie, a trifle baffled but still smiling. “I didn’t quite get you.”

  Richard stared at him for a moment and then went on eating. The silence flooded in once more and we all went on eating, buried in our plates while the sound of Richard’s furious chewing rang out across the table.

  I could see that Alice was miserable, and so I threw myself into the breach. “Any good fishing up your way, Wylie?”

  “We were out just last week.”

  “Any luck?”

  “Oh, sure. I got about five. Couple of nice ones, too. Bass, mostly.”

  “Large-mouth?”

  Wylie nodded, chattering on in a lively fashion. When I glanced at Richard, he appeared to be a hundred miles off somewhere.