Crawlspace

by Lieberman, Herbert

  “By things,” I said, “I take it you mean people?”

  “Yes.”

  “Like Mrs. Graves and me?”

  “Yes.”

  “We threaten you?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do we threaten you?”

  He was silent a while, but I could sense him framing his reply. Putting it all together as carefully as he could. “People are that way,” he said finally. “One day you think they’re one thing and the next day you find out they’re something else. There are no people in this cave. Only animals. You know what to expect from animals.

  “And you don’t know what to expect from us?”

  He didn’t answer this time. But the silence said enough. “It works the other way, too,” I said. “Doesn’t it? We don’t know exactly what to expect from you, either—do we?”

  “Sure.” He said it very matter-of-factly. “One day one of us’ll louse it all up. One way or the other.”

  I was shocked and a little hurt. “Then why stay with us?”

  “Because you and Missus are better than most.”

  “Better?”

  “You’re kind.”

  “Kind?”

  “Like that thing with the church—”

  I hadn’t realized he knew anything about our formal break with Reverend Horn and his church. When it had all happened, and he asked us why we stopped going to church, we simply told him that the weather had gotten too bad to drive in each Sunday. When the weather began to improve and he never questioned us about it, we assumed that he’d forgotten the whole thing.

  “So you stay with us because you think we’re kind?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Also I gotta try to learn other ways.”

  “You mean among people?”

  “Yes. It’s more—” He was groping for a word. “Natural?” I said.

  “Right. That’s it. Natural.”

  “It’s more natural,” I said, seeing the dilemma. “But more dangerous?”

  “Sure. But somehow you gotta take the chance. I’ve always lived this way.” I could feel him beside me looking around the cave, as if he could see things there in the darkness. “And even though it’s safer down here,” he went on, “it’s no good.”

  “You mean you’ve always lived wild like this? In caves and woods?”

  “Sure,” he said, his voice more tense. “Most of the time.”

  “Have you no people? Family of any kind?”

  “Sure. But they’re no good. Just people. I come away from them.”

  “And lived wild?”

  “Sure.”

  “Off the earth?”

  “Sure—eat where I can. Sleep where I can.”

  “And now you want to live with people again?”

  “I got to leam.”

  “And when you went to work for the fuel company, you were trying to learn?”

  “Yes.” There was such a weary resignation about that last yes. It was so sad and pathetically funny.

  “A job means giving up your freedom, Richard,” I went on. “It means having to go to the same place every day and working for somebody.”

  “I hate working.” There was a harsh edge to his voice. “Not for myself. But for other people.”

  His sudden anger made me laugh. “I spent a lifetime working for other people,” I said, “and I was well paid for my services. I made other men rich and lost my health doing it. Running around for them. Worrying for them. And now here I am at the end of my life, finally independent with a small pension and a poor lame heart that can quit on me at any time.” I laughed bitterly. “That’s what I gave up my freedom for—for the dubious dignity of having my own little roof to die under.” I could sense him listening to me. “Are you sure you want that, Richard?”

  “Sure,” he said with that funny, automatic decisiveness of his.

  Suddenly I was laughing out loud.

  “What’s so funny?” he said.

  “I’m laughing because it’s so sad.”

  He was silent, and I realized that I’d confused him. “I mean you’re wanting to give it all up.” I sighed. “It’s sad. But, I suppose, it’s good too. And if that’s what you really want, I’ll help you all I can.” I groped for his hand in the dark. “Is it a deal?”

  “Sure. But I don’t wanna work for nobody.”

  “I understand,” I said and pumped his hand in the dark. “There’s no reason why you can’t be self-employed. Some trade. Some profession where you’ll be your own boss. Don’t worry. We’ll work out a way of life for you. We’ll take things a step at a time and have you on your own before you know it.”

  He leaned back in the darkness and as he did so a long sigh of relief rose from somewhere deep within him. I felt I had helped lift a great burden off him and I was strangely happy.

  Sitting there in the moist inky darkness I had a sudden vision of him as he looked in dazzling sunlight, shaggy and beatific. Suddenly a question occurred to me.

  “Richard—When we first saw you, your hair was short. Then when you moved in with us you let it grow long. Why?”

  “It’s always been like this.”

  “Long?”

  “Sure. I just cut it to get the job.”

  “You mean with Beamish?” I asked, a little stunned. “Sure.”

  He said it as if he had done the most natural thing in the world. At first I was appalled, thinking of the deceit and the misrepresentation. But then I realized that trickery was the last thing in Richard Atlee’s mind. It had nothing to do with tricks at all. Suddenly I was laughing out loud and slapping his knee in the dark, my hoots roaring back at me through the deepest chambers of the cave. It was all too funny. Too perfectly and marvelously funny. Afterwards we sat there in the dark together, our shoulders brushing lightly, listening to one another’s breathing and to the stream pounding below us like an artery. After nearly half a year, we’d at last become friends.

  Chapter Ten

  One day early in April the sun shone, the earth got oozy and we knew that spring had come. Alice and I spent the morning down in the basement counting bulbs and examining dahlia tubers. I oiled the lawn mower and inventoried our stock of seed and fertilizer.

  “Let’s make a list of what we need, Albert, and then go into town.”

  “Fine,” I said. I looked forward to going into town. There were things I wanted to do. The trout season was well under way, and if I couldn’t have a partner in Wylie Crane, I might just possibly have one in Richard Atlee. I didn’t even take into consideration the fact that Richard couldn’t have cared less about fishing. In fact, on that awful night of a few weeks past, he’d said as much to Wylie. Still, I disregarded all of that. Somewhere down deep inside me I had a desire to relive with Richard those sweet, sad wonderful days when Blanche was alive and we were all together at Indian Lake, when I’d given Wylie his first fishing rod and was teaching him to cast.

  So in spite of dire premonitions, I’d secretly determined to buy Richard a rig of his own and teach him fly-casting. That was my chief mission in town that day.

  Alice and I were nearly out the front door, about to leave for town, when the phone rang. It was Jennings, my tax attorney from Banbury, a small town about twenty miles due west of here. He’d been working over my returns and had run into a number of questions. Would it be all right if he came over? he wanted to know.

  “Is it urgent?” I asked.

  “Yes.” He felt concerned enough to want to get the matter out of the way, as quickly as possible.

  “Well, then, we’d better get it done. Come right over.”

  When I hung up, Alice, who’d been listening to the discussion, was clearly upset. “Albert, we really should get these supplies in and get started. We’re already quite late with the lilacs. They should’ve been in and limed last month.”

  I thought about it for a moment. Alice unfortunately wasn’t a driver.

  “Do you suppose Richard could go into town and pick the stuff up?” I asked.


  She pondered a moment. “I don’t see why not. It never occurred to me. You suppose he has a license?”

  “There’s only one way to find out.” I was already half out the door.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To find him.”

  “Do you know where he is?”

  “Possibly.”

  I went down to the bottom of the garden where the forest comes up on the far edge of the lawn, and where Richard’s new wall stood. Beyond that forest lay the bog. If Richard was as far back into the bog as the cave, I knew I couldn’t reach him. But if he were merely on the other side of the wood, ambling around in the bog, then I had a good chance.

  I stood at the bottom of the garden facing the woods, and capped my hands over my mouth. “Richard!” My voice echoed through the trees.

  I waited and called again. “Richard!” And then once more.

  I think it was after the third call. Surely it could’ve been no more. I heard a noise about a hundred yards or so out in the woods and off somewhere to the left.

  Branches cracked. Twigs snapped. Great thudding steps came pounding my way. I thought I was being charged by a large stag, and I had an impulse to nm. But I didn’t. I stood frozen to the spot.

  Suddenly a glimpse of red flashed through the trees. Then Richard broke out into the open, loping through the woods like a wild creature, sweeping toward me, a look of near frenzy on his face.

  I’ll never forget the look of him when he first saw me. At first I thought it was surprise. Later, when he got closer, I realized it was terror or something very nearly that. Quite a sight it was, too—eyes dilated, nostrils flaring, his chest heaving fitfully.

  “Richard—What on earth?”

  The moment he saw me, a look of enormous relief spread across his face. Suddenly it was clear what had happened. He’d interpreted my calls as an emergency. He’d thought I was in trouble and had come bounding up. It was immensely touching and something I’d scarcely -realized. Richard Atlee was deeply attached to me.

  A bit of embarrassment followed when he guessed what I was thinking. I scolded and teased him playfully, as if he were a child who’d acted foolishly but admirably. But even as I made an effort to appear by turns stern and amused, it was perfectly evident to him that I was trying to cover my own feelings, so deeply had he touched me by that simple display of loyalty.

  When we’d both recovered our composure I spoke: “Mrs. Graves and I were just on our way into town to pick up some seed and other equipment at the nursery. Something’s just come up now and we can’t go. Can you take the car into town and get what’s needed?”

  He looked at me a little skeptically. “The car?”

  “Of course. How else would you get there?”

  “I can take the car?” he asked again as if he hadn’t believed it the first time.

  “Of course. Now here’s the key, and I want you to take the registration just in case—”

  In the library I jotted down a list of items while he went upstairs and changed.

  When he came back down to get the list, he was dressed in shirt and tie and had combed back the great flowing locks from his forehead.

  Outside in the driveway as we stood beside the car I pressed a fifty-dollar bill into his hand. Just as he slipped in behind the wheel, something that’d been buzzing around in my head suddenly spilled from my lips. “Richard—May I see your license?”

  The moment the words were out, I knew I’d made a mistake. I could see it in his eyes. I’d come so far with him in the past few weeks. Overcome so much distrust. And now suddenly to undo it all over something idiotic like this.

  “I’m sorry, Richard. But I have to see it. You understand.”

  But of course he didn’t. Something flickered in his eyes and hung there for a moment vaguely. In he next moment he snapped out a cheap, frayed, imitation leather wallet. His fingers flipped through a wad of muddy cellophane envelopes for keeping photographs, papers, and the like. He stopped at one and thrust it out at me. The gesture was not rude in itself. But it carried with it an unmistakable hint of contempt. It made me feel a bit like a traffic cop.

  It was a driver’s license issued by the state of Wyoming to one Richard Atlee. The most cursory inspection revealed that it was valid and up to date. I had to see no more. But of course I couldn’t tear my eyes from the rest of the information given there. I read it, full of self-contempt and feeling all of the bitterness pouring out of him.

  Date of Birth: July 22, 1953

  Address: 45 Hoover Place

  Cody, Wyoming

  The rest of it was a description of height ,weight, eyes, color of hair, etc. Perfectly innocuous stuff, but my eyes devoured it.

  So it was that after a period of six months I’d finally discovered a few tangible facts in the history of Richard Atlee. None of it told me very much, but having the information gave me a curious sense of satisfaction. As if I’d suddenly had the upper hand on him and if anything went wrong, if he’d stepped out of line, there’d be a way of getting him.

  Directly opposite the license, in one of those dirty cellophane envelopes was the face of a young boy. He stood beside an older man in the uniform of a soldier. The man was several inches taller than Richard and stood with his arm around him. The face of the soldier was strong and craggy. He had dark hair and a beaked nose. I imagined him to be foreign. Probably Italian.

  The boy in the picture had the face of the young man who had come to service my furnace in October. It was clearly Richard Atlee, only three or four years younger, wearing a sport shirt and jeans—all in all, a very conventional-looking young man. I handed him back the wallet through the window. “The soldier I don’t recognize,” I said playfully. “But I think I’ve seen the young man before.”

  He took the wallet back without a word, and left me smiling dismally all by myself. I wanted to smooth over the rough moment we’d just had. But it was a feeble effort, and it didn’t win me back any of the affection I’d felt pouring out of him shortly before when he’d come thundering out of the woods in response to my calls.

  “I’m sorry, Richard. I had to see it.”

  “Sure.”

  “It would’ve been against the law to let you drive out of here without it.”

  “Sure.”

  “And you can’t blame me for wanting to know you better.”

  He shot me an odd glance.

  “Drive carefully, will you?”

  “Sure.” He turned the ignition and the motor started up instantly. When he was rolling backwards down the drive, I waved to him. “We’ll wait supper for you.”

  That was the first time Richard Atlee went to town as my representative. I felt a great pleasure just standing there watching the car recede into the distance leaving in its wake a languid puff of road dust.

  There was a strange inner comfort in the knowledge that he was with us now. Part of us, so to speak. If I were to feel ill or out of sorts or tired and there were errands in town, I wouldn’t have to go. Now there was a strong young man, faithful and dependable, whom I could send in my place.

  What a comfort that is to a man in my state of health. Some one to lean on, someone to fall back upon in time of an emergency. And also, in the back of my mind—if something should happen to me, Alice wouldn’t be alone. Yes, even that crossed my mind. Alice’s welfare after my death was a source of great concern to me. Not as regards money, of course. There’d be enough for her to live modesdy, if not graciously, for the rest of her life. But Alice is not one to make friends easily.

  How very touching, I thought again, that look of sheer relief on his face when he’d crashed through the thickets and saw me standing there.

  I spent the afternoon with Jennings sparring about deductions and finally cleared up all the outstanding problems. After he left I gave the rest of the afternoon over to reading. I picked up the Blake that Richard had borrowed and thumbed through. Almost instantly, my eyes fell on the lines:

  T
he little boy lost in the lonly fen,

  Led by the wandering light,

  Began to cry; but God, ever nigh

  Appeared like his father, in white.

  He kissed the child, and by the hand led,

  And to his mother brought,

  Who in sorrow pale, through the lonly dale,

  Her little boy weeping sought.

  It seemed almost fateful, seeing these lines first. And when I at last closed the book I was very happy.

  Along about dusk a car rumbled up the driveway. I assumed it was Richard and went right on reading my newspaper. After about a quarter of an hour Alice poked her head into the parlor.

  “Was that Richard who drove up?”

  “Yes, I s’pose.”

  “He’s not in here with you?”

  “No.”

  “Why doesn’t he come in?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know.”

  She looked at me oddly. “I think he’s just sitting out there.”

  “Oh?”

  I put my paper down and walked back to the kitchen. You could see the driveway through the window of the kitchen door. When I peered through it I could see my car, and through the half light of dusk, someone sitting behind the wheel.

  “Is it Richard?” Alice asked.

  “I think so.”

  “Well, why is he just sitting there?”

  I opened the door and stepped out onto the back porch. Just as I did that, the car door opened and Richard Atlee emerged from behind the wheel.

  But still he didn’t come. He just hovered there tentatively in the half light by the car door and stared up at the house as if he were unsure about coming in.

  “Something’s wrong,” Alice said and started to push past me. But I stopped her. “I’ll go.”

  He stood in the middle of the living room groping for words while we sat there speechless and quaking, listening to his story:

  “I kept waitin’ for him to wait on me,” he said. “Just kept waitin’ and waitin’. And still he didn’t pay no attention to me. All these people kept comin’ in after me and he’d wait on them first. They just come in and get right in front of me.” His cheeks were red and his voice fluttered with emotion. “He’d jus’ wait on them and pass me right by.”