The Intruder

by Charles Beaumont

  “Gramp,” Tom said, his voice on the edge of control, “I’m telling you to—”

  “Go ahead!” cackled the old man gleefully. “Go ahead! Go right on ahead and hit an eighty-year-old man—that’s about all you’re able to do, with your big college education! Huh! Listen, you just listen: We got us somebody in town with a little piss-and-vinegar now. We got somebody that knows it ain’t right for black coons to mix with our white children, and that somebody’s gonna stop it, you watch. He ain’t gonna sit around, just sit around, writing little words on paper and all that bullshit.”

  “Be quiet, will you!”

  Gramp stamped his foot. “You’re for this thing, Tom McDaniel, that’s what the hell what. Go on, why don’t you admit it—ain’t you?”

  “No!” Tom said angrily. “You know as well as I do that I fought it right from the beginning. While you were boozing it up at Rusty’s, I was in Farragut, talking—oh, what’s the use?”

  “Sure, that’s right, what’s the use? Talking. The fella on the phone, he said that the time for that was over and done. Words ain’t gonna do no good now.”

  “Then what will?”

  “Action!” the old man squawked.

  His face took on an inner brightness.

  “Action,” he said again; and Tom knew that he was returning to other years. Whether they had existed, whether David Parkinson had ever been a young man with firm flesh, that was something else.

  He was flickering over the past now, the mighty past, when he’d been a Dragon in the Klan, when he’d ridden black horses and set fires and issued orders in a loud voice.

  The mighty past.

  “Got to do something . . .”

  Tom disliked being in the same room with Gramp—Gramp with his snuff, his chewing tobacco, his cheap cigars and vile language. Many times Tom wondered how Ruth had turned out to be so quiet, so ladylike, so different— But he supposed that the old man was not all bad. He would perform sudden acts of generosity, usually at the tag end of a tantrum, and these would always have a certain flair. Like the time he went out and spent his month’s pension check on the coat at Bennett’s that Ella had been admiring for such a long time. No—not all bad.

  “All right,” Tom said, after a full minute. “All right. Let’s not argue.”

  “Who’s arguing?”

  “You are.”

  “Sure, always me, never you. Ruth, get my medicine—it’s on the top shelf. Your goddamn husband is doing his best to give me a heart attact.”

  Ruth McDaniel sighed, hesitated, as if trying to find exactly the right set of words that would shut her father up; then she went out of the room and came back with a small bottle.

  Gramp, disdaining a spoon, swigged directly from the bottle. He hawked loudly. “What about you, Ella? What do you think about having a bunch of niggers sitting in the same room with you?”

  “Let me tell you something,” Tom said sharply. “Let’s see if you can get it straight for once. On January fourth, nineteen-fifty-six, Judge Silver ordered us to integrate the high school. He acted on orders from the Supreme Court of the United States. So now it’s law; you understand? It’s law. And whether you like it or not doesn’t make a bit of difference.”

  “I ain’t so sure of that,” Gramp said, “and neither is that fella that called up. He talks sense.”

  Tom rose from the table. He sighed. “Well, if he’s got any ideas, I’ll be glad to listen to them.”

  “Will you?” Ruth asked.

  “Of course!”

  “I mean, Tom, actually—the idea of them going to school with Ella . . . well, it isn’t a very nice thing to think about. If there’s anything we can do, then I think we ought to try, don’t you?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Well, you don’t need to sound like such a bear.”

  “I do not—oh, never mind.”

  Tom got up and walked into the living room. Viciously, he snapped off the TV set and found the novel he had been trying to read for months.

  He made a great effort to concentrate, but could not avoid hearing Gramp’s voice from the kitchen.

  “What’s he got his back up about?”

  “Nothing,” Ruth said. “Tom’s just been working hard. He’s tired.”

  “Is that what’s the matter with him lately?”

  “Yes, Dad. Yes. That’s what’s the matter with him lately. I’m sure of it.”

  4

  It was exactly the same: No beginning, no explanation; just himself, materializing suddenly with the picture. He was in the lowest cabin of an ocean cruiser. The room was small and unfamiliar. Through the portholes, he could see the bright green water, rising in waves, thrashing endlessly beyond the horizon. He stood there, watching the water for several minutes; then he turned.

  A girl lay on the bed, her body covered by a thin sheet. She was perhaps the most beautiful creature he had ever seen, but she was a stranger. He studied her rich black hair, which glistened against the spotless linen, and he studied her face, and he knew that he was in love with her. The moment he realized this, the girl’s eyes opened and her arms lifted and she beckoned, calling his name silently.

  He walked to the bed, sat on the soft edge, and carefully pulled down the sheet.

  The girl began to tremble. He asked her not to do this, and he reached out his hand. His fingers touched her lips. She stopped trembling.

  He gathered her into his arms and kissed her, gently, and stroked her hair. He held her close to him.

  Then, someone laughed. He drew back, afraid, and forced himself to look at his hands. They clutched the lustrous hair. He touched the girl’s shoulder: a ribbon of flesh stripped away.

  He screamed; again the laugh came; and he watched, watched while the rich black tresses began to fall from the girl’s head, while the soft white flesh melted and slid from the bones, until at last there was only a grotesque skeleton on the bed.

  The laughter became hysterical now. He leaped up, walked quickly over to the glass door and wrenched it open. It gave onto a closet. Within, men and women, hanging from hooks, were laughing at him.

  He begged them to be quiet.

  He struck them, again and again, and demanded that they be quiet.

  But they would not be quiet . . .

  When he awoke, his mouth was dry and his head ached: a steady, rhythmically throbbing ache, at the temples. The morning heat lay still as mold in the airless room, hot sunlight piercing through the shades and through the closed windows.

  Adam Cramer shook the dream away, waited for the hysterical laughter to recede, and remained quiet, unmoving, for almost twenty minutes. Then he went into the bathroom and swallowed four Empirin tablets. Cold water revived him. The headache dulled away to the usual small, inner pain he’d managed to adjust to over the years.

  It was eight-thirty.

  Although he was hungry and in need of coffee, he sat down at the table and uncapped the ballpoint pen. In a way, he supposed, writing to Max would become a nervous reaction, like prayer, for these letters were taking the form of duty; still, it was certainly true that Max deserved to know what was happening.

  The “Max” came, as usual, with effort. For uncounted months the two of them had been close, but “Professor Blake” had always seemed proper. It was proper, he thought, then. I was a student. I’m no longer a student.

  Dear Max:

  Probably I ought to number these notes because probably they’ll arrive two or three at a time. Too much school has made me report conscious, or something. (Daddykins, rest his sweet moldering bones, always demanded reports. Never trusted me. Got so I couldn’t take a trip to the crapper without listing the number of tissues used. Really!) Anyway, bear with me, Max, I know I’m making you my diary.

  It’s morning now. I am full of Empirin and confidence. Yesterday afternoon I overwhelmed a sample of the local fauna with my charm (!) Her name is Ella, she is around fifteen or sixteen, very pretty, very stacked in a way the girls never got back
at the university (with their damn bony shoulders and long necks). Typical high school kid, you know, nothing in her head but movie magazines and brassieres. Doesn’t even know what integration is, probably to do with sex. Anyway, she dug the handsome city slicker, and I do believe this is going to turn out to be the pipeline through to the high school set—very important.

  The phone calls were enormously successful—to tell the truth, I didn’t expect such a great general reaction. Everyone sounded alike— No, we sho don’t like this yere sitchywashun; etc.—and there’s no more doubt whatever in my mind. After breakfast I’ll see the money boy I told you about (write you result tonight) and if he goes along with it, I think we’ll be rolling.­

  More later—

  Adam

  P.S.—You might start thinking about what you want to be in der new order. Minister? Director of Propaganda? Official Philosophizer? Don’t laugh!

  He folded the letter into an envelope and went downstairs. The television set was on, still flickering, and the three women were again seated on the red leather couch. Their heads swiveled, swiveled back.

  “Good morning!” he said.

  They mumbled a greeting.

  He started outside but was halted by Mrs. Pearl Lambert, who had been sorting laundry behind the desk. “You right sure now you don’t want Mabel to clean your room?” she said.

  “It’s all done,” he said, smiling. “How are you this morning?”

  “Can’t complain too much, I guess,” the little woman said. “I’m sorry if I spoiled the mystery last night for you. I mean, by telling you who did it.”

  “Not a bit. I enjoyed myself a lot.”

  “It was good to have company.”

  A man and a woman walked into the lobby. “ ’Morning, Mrs. Lambert!” The man was stocky, about fifteen pounds overweight, and had a complacent, pleased expression. The woman was young, but not youthful. Her hair was black, and she wore it in a faintly old-fashioned style, heaped upon her head. Her dress was black, also, but it was stylish. With a set of caps over those teeth, Adam thought, she’d be all right. A pretty good body. Nice legs.

  “ ’Morning,” said Mrs. Lambert. “This here is our new permanent temporary guest that I was telling you about; he looked at the mystery with me last night. Mr. Cramer, I’d like you to meet Mr. and Mrs. Griffin.”

  The man stuck out his hand in a broad, unhesitating, sena­torial way. “How are things, Mr. Cramer?”

  “I’m glad to meet you.”

  “The Griffins been staying here on-and-off for—how long is it, Sam?”

  “Well,” the man laughed, “I guess about four years.”

  “Four years,” the little woman said.

  Adam nodded. “That speaks well for your hotel, Mrs. Lambert,” he said, “and for Mr. Griffin’s taste.”

  “See?” Mrs. Lambert said, grinning mysteriously.

  The Griffins grinned back. “Yeah,” the man said. He turned to Adam. “Had chow yet?”

  “No.”

  “Neither have we. We’re just headed down to the Palace. If you care to join us, you’re welcome. Isn’t he, Vy?”

  The woman in the black dress said yes without a great deal of enthusiasm.

  Adam looked at her. There was a hardness of line about her eyes, a weariness, that contrasted sharply with her husband’s open features. She was maybe thirty-three. But her eyes were older. “Well, I don’t know, I hate to barge in—”

  “Barge in? Listen!” Griffin gurgled with amusement. “Now you wouldn’t want to disappoint my little girl, would you?” he asked.

  Mrs. Griffin seemed to wince, automatically.

  “Come on. Treat’s on Sam Griffin!”

  They walked by the three sitting ladies, out the glass doorway, into the town.

  “A great day,” Sam Griffin said, taking a mighty breath. “Ain’t it, Vy?”

  “Sure, Sam.”

  “Yes, sir. Mr. Cramer, you like this climate?”

  “Oh, very much,” Adam said, putting a little extra dash of softness into his voice. He had much to do today, but there was something here: he sensed it.

  “We love it, the little girl and me. Listen, you sure did make a friend of Mrs. Pearl Lambert, mister—seeing the late movie with her. She’s a wonderful woman. Really wonderful, you know what I mean? We first come here in—when was it?”

  “Nineteen fifty-two.”

  “Nineteen fifty-two. Just passing through, on the way to Farra-gut. But we been traveling for hours, you know the way a person does, and were we bushed! I mean. Well, she gave us a room and said, ‘You all look like you been working too hard. Why don’t you take a little vacation, stay a while?’ Remember, Vy?”

  “Yeah,” the woman said, “I remember.”

  Adam smiled and turned his attention to Mrs. Griffin. She had a very nice sway to her hips as she walked, and a sensuousness that neither the hair-do nor the plain black dress could conceal. She’s trying to be unattractive, he thought. Why?

  “Where do you hail from?” Griffin asked.

  “Los Angeles.”

  “Los Angeles! Say! Do you know the Fairgrounds at Pomona?”

  Adam said he did.

  “Vy and me worked the Fairgrounds twice, and it was good, too. Real good. We was pushing something called the Air-Flow-Master.” He chuckled. “Made close to six hundred a day on that gadget. I mean, it was perfect for a pitch: see, what it did—”

  “Sam, please.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I—” Vy Griffin shrugged. “Nothing, honey. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  “Heck, that’s okay, I don’t mind. I talk a-mile-a-minute, anyway—you probably noticed, huh? Old blabbermouth Sam. But when you’re spieling all day, almost every day, it gets to be a habit.”

  “I don’t see anything odd, the way you speak,” Adam said, glancing at the woman.

  “Vy does. My little girl is a real lady, you can tell that a block away, and sometimes I get on her nerves. But—well, this gimmick, what it did, it broke up the flow of gasoline to the carburetors of your car; and that makes for smoother feeding, better mileage, faster acceleration, and everything. That’s what we said, anyway. It should have worked, too—I mean, it made perfect sense. Only it didn’t work. What’d they cost us, baby?”

  “Thirty-five cents.”

  “Yeah, that’s right, thirty-five cents. And we sold them for three dollars . . .”

  Griffin elaborated on the methods he and his wife had used to push the Air-Flow-Master, what he thought of the California climate, how he handled hecklers, and Adam listened and watched Vy Griffin as he listened.

  “. . . of course, I say we. The little girl hates doing that kind of work, and I don’t blame her, in a way, so she always stays home. Old Sam don’t mind . . .”

  At a restaurant called the Palace, Griffin stopped talking.

  They went inside—it was a big room; deserted—and took a booth in the center.

  “Food ain’t really too good here,” Griffin whispered, “but it’s better than anywhere else this time of day. Get your eggs scrambled.”

  A woman with a bleached and naked face appeared; in her weariness, in the lackluster eyes, she provided a perfect contrast to Sam Griffin’s flashing red vitality.

  “Watch this,” Sam whispered; then he said, “We want three orders of framistan covered in fortis oil with a little sumis on the side.”

  “Beg pardon?” the woman said, not smiling.

  Griffin roared, thumping the table. “Scrambled eggs and coffee. Three orders.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Holy cow! Every morning, that’s what I say; and she still don’t get it. ‘Beg pardon?’ Oh my. Well, anyway, Mr. Cramer, you’re staying a while in Caxton? You’ll like it.” His voice rang even more loudly than before. “You’ll like it: it’s a fine place. The people got brains—except for that waitress. They work at their clubs, you know? Lions, Elks, Rotary; all like that. Very community-­minded, I mean. And they
’re honest. When Vy and me settle down and get through with all this running around, I don’t know but what we won’t pitch tent right here. What about that, baby?”

  Vy Griffin said, “Sure, why not?”

  “Great little girl. She always says yes, but I guess you know who wears the pants in this family, huh, Mr. Cramer? I mean trousers. Trousers!” Sam Griffin threw his hands up to guard against an imaginary attack, and laughed. “Got to watch my mouth.”

  Breakfast arrived and the stocky man suddenly fell silent, directing his energies to the task of eating. It seemed to take most of his concentration.

  Adam waited for the proper moment, then let his eyes travel openly over Vy Griffin’s face, over her breasts, up again to her face.

  She looked away quickly, touched her lips with the napkin and rose. “Excuse me,” she said.

  “I guess we might do that.”

  She turned and walked to the back of the restaurant.

  “Really something, huh?” Sam Griffin said. He clucked his tongue and shook his head. “Boy. And crazy over old Sam, can you beat that! I mean, how lucky can a fellow get?” He removed a cigar from his shirt pocket. “Boy.”

  Adam suppressed a smile and finished off his coffee.

  “I see you’re a single man, Mr. Cramer.”

  “Afraid so.”

  “Well, don’t give up the ghost. I thought I wasn’t ever going to find a woman, a real woman, you know? I mean, let’s face it—I’m kind of a slob. I make my living off gullible people. I talk loud. And I know there are maybe a couple of handsomer men around in the woods. But, the good Lord didn’t forget Sam. So keep looking, you hear me?”

  “I will.”

  Vy Griffin returned to the table. Her walk was graceful, the sway of her hips an entirely natural, unconscious thing.

  “I was just telling Mr. Cramer here that he shouldn’t give up trying to find a woman.”

  “Oh? Have you had trouble in that direction, Mr. Cramer?”

  Adam smiled at her. “Well,” he said, “let’s say I haven’t been as fortunate as Mr. Griffin.”

  “Sam! Sam! I hate all this ‘Mister’ stuff.”

  The waitress came over and refilled the coffee cups. Adam watched Vy move closer to her husband, watched her light the cigarette, nervously.