The Intruder

by Charles Beaumont

  “How many calls did you make?”

  “About twenty.”

  “And what did you find out?”

  “That the people are against integration, Mr. McDaniel. Dead-set against it.”

  “Goddamn right!” Gramp rose from his chair nimbly and walked over.

  “This is my father-in-law, Mr. Parkinson,” Tom said. “Gramp, Adam Cramer.”

  “I talked with you yesterday, boy. Didn’t think you was so young.”

  “Well—”

  “But I liked what you said, now, I’ll tell you that. It don’t take no campaign to find out what the people think in Caxton, though. They hate the idea. But they’re too goddamn wishy-washy to do anything about it.”

  “Gramp.”

  “It’s a fact, Tom, and you know it. Tom here isn’t no different either.”

  “I’m sure you must be wrong, sir. Mr. McDaniel, I understand, carried out quite an extensive campaign in his paper.”

  Gramp laughed wetly. “Shit,” he said. “A bunch of words. Take it easy, he says, don’t rush, and all that kind of horse-hockey.”

  “Perhaps the trouble is simply that there’s been no organized effort made. Wouldn’t you say that, Mr. McDaniel?”

  Tom shook his head. “No. We pulled every string there was, but it didn’t work out. Those Negroes are going to school, starting tomorrow, and we might as well get used to it.”

  “I can’t agree, sir,” Adam Cramer said. “The Society of National­ American Patriots has, if you don’t mind my saying it, a little clearer picture of things; after all, we’re not right in the middle of it, if you know what I mean. And we’ve devised a number of methods which only involve the co-operation of the people. You’re not licked yet, Mr. McDaniel.”

  Gramp’s eyes shone brightly. “You probably mean good, sonny, but it’s gonna be like coaxing a bear out of hibernation.”

  “I think I understand, sir. Still, you mustn’t underestimate folks. Almost everyone on earth would sleep till noon if somebody didn’t wake them up.”

  “And that’s what you’re going to do?” Tom asked quietly. “Wake us up?”

  “We hope to be able to present the issues as they really are and show how they can be beaten.”

  “Mr. Cramer,” Tom said, “you probably know that school starts tomorrow. By all rights, Ella should stay home and get some rest.”

  Ruth looked at Tom meaningfully.

  “Dear,” she said, “you must remember, Ella’s no child any more. I honestly do think she deserves to go out; after all, she’s been working in that drugstore every night, or practically every night, for months.”

  Tom glanced from the young man to Gramp to Ruth, finally to Ella. Coldly he said, “Very well. But, Mr. Cramer, I want her back by ten thirty, do you understand that?”

  Tom and Ruth watched them get into the four-year-old rental Chevrolet sedan, watched until the car had backed out of the driveway and was out of sight.

  Then Ruth said, “Why don’t you like him, Tom?”

  “I think he’s too old for Ella. She’s just a kid.”

  “You call twenty-six old?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  Tom sighed and started for the easy chair in the corner. Gramp stopped him. “That fella’s got some piss and vinegar in his blood, Tom McDaniel, you know that? That’s why you don’t like him.”

  “Not necessarily,” Tom said.

  “ ‘Not necessarily,’ ” the old man mimicked. “You don’t fool nobody, Tom. Nobody. You’re just worried now he might show Ella what a spineless fool her father really is!”

  Ruth stamped her foot. “Dad, for heaven’s sake, will you stop talking that way! Please.”

  “This is America,” the old man said defiantly. “A body has a right to speak his mind.”

  “What mind?” Tom slumped into the easy chair and picked up a copy of the Farragut Courier.

  Ruth stood still for a while, then asked: “Dear, please, tell me, why are you so upset? Don’t you trust the boy with Ella?”

  Tom did not answer.

  “Well, what is it then, for heaven’s sake?”

  He folded the newspaper and removed his glasses. “Mr. Cramer,” he said, “has been going from house to house today, asking people to join his organization. He’s charging ten dollars membership. He got at least thirty-five families to go along with it so far.”

  “Well?” Ruth asked. “So what? I mean, he told you that himself, didn’t he?”

  “Not that part, no. I found it out from Ocie Collins, who didn’t join. He gave me something to read, too. Some of the organizational literature the boy is handing out. Would you care to hear it?”

  He got the paper out of his right pocket, straightened it and began to read, in a loud voice, over the blaring of the Western movie.

  “ ‘Integration of Negroes with Whites declared unconstitutional!’ ” he began. “ ‘Don’t be duped by the politicians in Washington. They want to cram desegregation down your throat, and they won’t stop at anything until they do it. Unless you fight back! Yes! There is a way to fight. The Negroes can be removed from Caxton high school! Your daughters can be safe from contamination! For further details, come to ——’ ” Tom looked up. “He’s penciled in ‘The courthouse at seven o’clock Monday night, August 27.’ It’s signed Adam Cramer, Executive Secretary, Society of National American Patriots, Washington, D.C.”

  Ruth looked temporarily confused. “Well,” she said, “maybe he does have some ideas, Tom. You couldn’t be against him for that, could you?”

  “Of course not, not for that alone. But, damn it, if he has ideas, why doesn’t he go to some responsible members of the community and present them above board—”

  “—and have them shoved down in a drawer, somewhere,” Gramp snorted. “I’ll tell you why, because he has brains, that’s why. You tried that, and see what it got. Nothing, that’s what.”

  “Besides,” Ruth said, “holding a meeting is pretty open and above board, wouldn’t you say?”

  Tom let out a long breath. “I don’t know. I just think that he’s going about it in the wrong way.”

  “Ha!” said Gramp.

  “He’s going to see you tomorrow, dear,” Ruth said, “didn’t he say that?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Well then? He seems like an awfully nice and intelligent boy. Doesn’t he?”

  “Yes. Yes.”

  Ruth stared at her husband for a time. Then she went into the kitchen.

  Cautiously, Adam Cramer said: “Do you really want to go to a movie?”

  Ella nodded her head.

  “They’re not actually moving, you know,” he said. “It’s all an illusion. What you’re looking at is a million photographs, that’s all, and they lie to you and tell you they’re moving. I know. I once worked for a studio.”

  “You did not.”

  “I did. And I found out their dirty secrets. You say you want to see Gregory Peck. Well, what if I told you that I happen to know that Gregory Peck is actually a woman in disguise?”

  “Now, listen—”

  “Scout’s honor. You have no idea the miracles those make-up men can achieve. They needed a leading man for a picture and one of the producers just happened to see this six-foot woman selling pencils outside the studio. Her name was Hortense. I had bought at least ten dozen Ticonderogas from her, and loved the old witch dearly, despite her odor. Then one day she wasn’t at her usual corner any more. ‘What has happened to dear old Hortense?’ I asked passers-by, but they only shrugged. Then, some months later, I saw a picture called Keys of the Kingdom and there, playing the part of the missionary—you remember?—was my old friend, the pencil seller. Except now they called her Gregory Peck.”

  “Well, I don’t know,” Ella said, “I think we’d better go to the movie anyway.”

  “Why? You’ve seen it eight times already.”

  “I have not.”

  “Well, I have. Look—why don’t we go somewhere for a coke, o
r something, and just talk? I’m kind of nervous; I couldn’t stand all that shooting.”

  “There isn’t any shooting in the picture. It’s a comedy.”

  “Well, then, the laughing would bother me. Really, Ella, I mean—can’t we go somewhere? You know the town, I don’t; so I couldn’t very well be spiriting you away.”

  Ella was silent for a time: then she said, “We could go to Rusty’s for a while, maybe.”

  “Rusty’s? What’s that?”

  “It’s kind of a place, you know. Over the bridge. Some of the kids go there at night—”

  “That sounds great. I’d like very much to meet some of the high school students.”

  “Why?”

  “For the work I’m doing.”

  Ella opened the window a few inches, letting in the soft rush of night air.

  “But I’ve done a lot of work already today. So I’ll promise not to ask any questions or anything like that tonight. You just introduce me around, okay? And we’ll sit in a corner and slurp sodas or dance or whatever the kids do around here. And I’ll get you home on time. Is it a deal?”

  “Well . . .”

  “Please?”

  “Make a circle here and go back to Broad Street. Get on 25 W and go over the bridge. Then I’ll tell you from there.”

  The car slowed, made a U-turn, and stopped. There were no streetlights in this area; only the dark houses, and the full dark trees. “You don’t really think I’m crazy, do you?” Adam Cramer asked, in a soft voice.

  “I guess not.”

  The car’s wheels spun on the loose gravel and headed down the black hill . . .

  “This is it, here.”

  They pulled into the crowded parking lot, and got out of the car.

  Rusty’s was a big log cabin. A sign in the window advertised Draught Beer—10¢. Ella led the way to the door.

  Inside, the place was crowded with teen-agers. Many of them had cigarettes—which they handled awkwardly and self-consciously—and a few nursed glasses of beer. A juke box in the corner blared a rock-’n’-roll tune.

  Some of the youngsters waved at Ella when she came in. She looked for a sign of Hank Kitchen, but he wasn’t there. It was pretty early, though.

  They took chairs at a large table occupied by two boys and a girl, none of whom bothered to stand.

  “Hi,” the girl said. She glanced coyly at Adam, then, with a certain admiration, at Ella.

  “This,” Ella said, “is Mr. Adam Cramer. Adam, Lucy Egan, Danny and George Humboldt.”

  A large man in a white apron appeared almost at once. “Two cokes,” Adam said. “I never could stand the taste of beer. Used to try to pretend I liked it, but it just didn’t work.”

  Danny and George Humboldt grinned. “Same with me,” George said. He was a moon-faced, rather fat young man, with a very thick accent. “But I figured I’d mature to it, you know?”

  “Maybe I will, too,” Adam said, “but right now—ugh!”

  “Yeah, man,” George said, winking at Ella. “Ugh.”

  “What’s old Hank doing these days?” Danny Humboldt asked.

  Ella shrugged. “I wouldn’t know,” she said. “I just plain wouldn’t know about him.” She paused. “Adam, here, comes from Hollywood.”

  “That a fact?” George said. “What the hell’s somebody from Hollywood doing in this jerkwater town, that’s what I’d like to know.”

  Danny lit a fresh cigarette from his previous one. “I bet I could give a pretty good guess.” Then the music stopped, there was an electric hesitation, and another record came on. George Humboldt pounded the tabletop for a few moments, then said: “Hey, Ella, let’s show ’em.”

  Ella shook her head. “Not right now, George.”

  “Come on, come on, it ain’t gonna kill you. Tomorrow we die, you know what I mean; tonight we live. Come on.”

  The fat boy got up, pulled back Ella’s chair.

  “Go on,” Adam said affably. “I’m not much of a dancer, anyway.”

  Ella and George began to move to the music, which was a fast fox-trot.

  Danny continued to stare at Adam, who was now focusing his attention on the girl. “You’re down here on this integration business, aren’t you?” he asked, finally.

  “That’s right.”

  “You figure there’s anything you can do?”

  “Yeah, I figure.”

  “What?”

  “Well, if you want to know, why don’t you stop by the courthouse tomorrow night about seven?”

  “How come?”

  “You’d like to see this thing stopped, wouldn’t you?”

  Danny Humboldt said nothing for a while. Impassively he took a drag on his cigarette. Then, in a quiet tone, he said, “You damn right.”

  “I thought so. Well, Danny, look: I promised Ella I wouldn’t do any work tonight. So would you—you and Lucy here—do me a favor?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Let all the kids know about the meeting. Get them to come.”

  Danny said, “I guess I can do that.”

  “It would mean a lot.”

  “Okay,” Danny said, still staring.

  The girl said that she would tell as many people as she could.

  “I appreciate it. But I don’t want you-all working for nothing. Would either of you get sore if I paid you ten dollars? It’s from the Organization.”

  Danny looked at the five-dollar bill for a moment. “Why not?” he said, pocketing the bill.

  “Good. Now you’re on the team. Oh-oh, here comes Ella. No more business.”

  “How about you and her, anyway?” Danny asked. “How come you—”

  Lucy said, “Oh, you be quiet.”

  “It’s simple, Danny. I’m working with her father on this thing.”

  “With Tom McDaniel?”

  Breathing hard, Ella fell heavily into the chair. George Humboldt was grinning all over his face. “Did we show ’em?” he said, “or did we show ’em, you know what I mean? Wow! You know?”

  For the next two and a half hours Adam Cramer spoke of Hollywood, of the studios, of stars he had met; particularly of his five years of university training. Four years at UCLA and a year in Switzerland, studying philosophy, criminal medicine—he didn’t go into it deeply, only skimming over the interesting parts.

  He spoke of the sunny, white-glazed slopes, so ideal for skiing, of Fastnacht, and of the complaisance of the Swiss females.

  “I was doggone glad to get back to America, I can tell you that,” he said, at the conclusion of his rambling story. “Foreigners are the same all over. Except that there weren’t many Jews in Switzerland, that was one thing, anyway . . .”

  Then, suddenly, the clock showed 10:00, and he turned to Ella. “I’m afraid it’s that time. If I’m going to get any co-operation from your father, I’d better scoot you home.”

  “See you on the battleground tomorrow,” George said, managing somehow to keep the cigarette between his lips as he spoke.

  His brother said: “If I see Hank later on, I’ll give him your regards.”

  Ella took a swipe at the young man with her purse. “You just mind your own business, hear?”

  “Sure, sure.”

  “I mean it.”

  Adam said that he was happy to have met the group, looked intently for a moment at Danny, and walked out with Ella. Her arm looped with his.

  They drove back down the road, swung off onto the highway. By a fairly deserted section, in the general neighborhood of Ella’s home, Adam stopped the car.

  “I think the wheels dropped off,” he said, grinning.

  “Well, then, you just pick this little old car up and run with it,” Ella said, pleased with the crack, with Adam, with the whole wonderful evening. He had made a tremendous impression; she knew that. On everyone.

  “Okay,” he said. “But first I’d like to tell you something. Do you mind if I tell you something?”

  Ella was silent. He moved a little closer to her.


  “I think you’re a very lovely girl, and I want to thank you for tonight.”

  “I didn’t do anything.”

  “No, you did, really. I don’t feel like such a stranger now. I know I have a friend. I do have a friend, don’t I?”

  Ella nodded, slowly. She had nothing to fear, she was certain of that now, but her heart began its ridiculous beating and she couldn’t tell why. Part of her wished that he would start the car again, another, stronger part wished otherwise.

  Adam Cramer looked into her eyes, then gently took her by the shoulders and pressed his lips to hers. Nothing could have been softer.

  “Thanks very much,” he said, moving back to his position behind the wheel, quickly.

  The car started with unexpected noise, and within minutes Ella was saying good night.

  “Again?”

  She felt the pressure on her hand and returned it. “I shouldn’t go out on a school night, but—”

  “Next week?”

  She said, “Maybe,” and went inside and tried to sleep.

  7

  The town of Caxton lies in a small, circular valley surrounded by the humped Carmichael Mountains. These mountains blaze fierce green throughout the years, for clouds come infrequently, and there is always the sun to pick up the million glintings of light. There is a smoothness to the mountains, also, as if they had all been carefully trimmed and groomed: a placid, cared-for smoothness to them, and to the town itself. Seen from above, Caxton appears as a clutch of brown and white leaves left at the bottom of an emerald teacup.

  But the beauty vanishes when you walk onto the main street. The stores and offices have a sterile, crabbed look about them. The courthouse, a wooden, churchlike structure, is the hub of the municipality. It sits, a sullen hulk, atop a glassy rise of lawn, failing to look either proud or dignified. Its wooden planking is old, brittle, stained orange where the nails have bled; the whitewash is a delight to children, who sneak up at night and run their fingers along the wood and feel the paint flake away and fall, silent as snow, to the ground. The courthouse is, in fact, the ugliest building in Caxton: but it is the hub. The center. From its squat steeple a rusted bell tolls out the hours, reminding the people, in unsonorous tones, that they are a little closer to night, a little closer to morning, a little closer to death.