The Intruder

by Charles Beaumont

  But, he wondered, was it Niesen alone?

  Of course it was. The others were his good soldiers, were they not?

  He tried to read the expressions on Bart Carey’s face, on Dongen’s,­ Holliman’s, Richey’s, Humboldt’s.

  “Throwing a scare into the nigras is good,” he said. “But we got to be very, very careful. Because, always remember, we’re trying to do more than just keep integration out of Caxton; we’re trying to kill it for good and all. I’ve outlined some of the ways. There’s lots of others. But every one is calculated, planned so that it’s them—the nigras—who dig their own graves. We hand ’em the noose, see? That’s fine. But they do the lynching. They hang their selves!”

  The faces in the room were impassive, inattentive. There was soft whispering.

  A voice called: “How do we know that’s gonna work?”

  A stranger to Adam. A broad-faced, hairy man. “Sir, you take my word for it. And you look at the record. Demoralization has been proved a thousand times more effective than any bomb ever was. Can’t you see that making someone surrender is better than conquering him? It’s just a different type of war. A smarter type. Okay, now you might think, Sure, that’s okay for here, where we outnumber the nigras, but what about where it’s reversed?—Well, there are answers to that, too. If we were like certain towns in Mississippi, we’d use different means. We’d use what is called ‘economic pressure.’ It would be put on all niggers and whites who didn’t support segregation. No loans to any of them; the supply houses and wholesalers just all of a sudden no longer provide customary credit; and so on. It’s another way of ‘opposing the law by every lawful means.’ No one gets murdered or blown up, no nigger gets to be a martyr, but they get beat just as sure as if we’d strafed ’em with machine guns.” Adam Cramer held up a finger. “So listen: I’m not condemning anybody. Whoever blew up the church, if he’s here, was doing what he thought was right; but he was wrong. I hope you all see that now, and will go on acting according to the orders of SNAP.”

  There was a short silence. Then Rev. Lorenzo Niesen said, “I don’t know about any of that, son, but I know one thing. There ain’t one solitary nigger’ll have the guts to step into our school tomorrow. It’s all over!”

  A cheer swelled the room.

  Adam looked at Carey and Dongen, who were smiling quietly.

  “All over,” Niesen cried to the others. “Caxton’s a white town again, and that’s for sure!”

  Joan, the owner of the Cafe, limped inside the room and approached Carey.

  “Ollie Underwood’s coming,” she said.

  “So what?” Carey said pleasantly. “We’re just having us a little old meeting. Tell Ollie he’s too late, though: we just about all cleaned up. Ain’t we?”

  Adam nodded.

  Joan limped back into the main dining room. The people began milling about, some left, others turned to their bottles of Dr. Pepper.

  “Don’t feel bad,” Dongen said, putting his hand around Adam’s neck. “The dynamite just speeded things up a speck.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Not that I approve, good God, no. But the thing is, whoever done it just saved us some work.”

  “We got to thank you,” Carey said, and Adam thought he saw the man wink at Dongen. “You put the strength in our arms, boy.” He turned and yelled, “Three cheers for Adam Cramer! Three cheers for the man who showed us the light and rid our town of the pestilence!”

  There was applause, and laughter.

  Someone muttered, “Hope they want to fight . . .”

  Another answered: “They too scared. But if they do, I guess we’re ready, don’t you guess?”

  Adam nodded to Carey and said, “The next meeting will be announced in the paper.”

  “Okay, but just see you stick around.” The man grinned. “We got to have you here in case they might be more trouble. And there’s that little business of ten thousand dollars setting in Rudy’s desk, too, don’t forget that!”

  Adam shook hands and walked outside.

  Something had gone wrong, something was wrong. What?

  He walked up the slight hill slowly, wondering why he was disturbed. It was foolish. He had succeeded beyond his most optimistic dreams, had he not? He came to Caxton to stamp out integration and now it was stamped out.

  And, after all, they did put up the money for his bail, didn’t they?

  He entered the hotel.

  It was the same as it had been a century ago when the town was quiet and no one thought much about the Negroes; when, in the afternoon, he had walked into the lives of all these soft people.

  The three ladies sat in ivory silence on the bright red couch, and the television set was shrilling: “. . . cuts your cleaning time in half, and saves you double . . .”

  Mrs. Pearl Lambert looked up from the book she was reading, which was a Dorothy Sayers mystery, and then looked down again.

  Billy Matthews dozed, motionless in the railroad chair.

  There could be a war outside, Adam thought, fighting in the streets, bombs falling, and nothing would change here.

  “Good evening, ladies,” he said.

  No one answered.

  He moved across the floor and up the flight of stairs. And in the darkness, walking, suddenly he thought of all the empty seashelled men he’d ever seen, the old and trembling ones in whom the light was gone, the fire extinguished—and how close, how near he’d come to being them.

  He paused.

  Now what, he thought, and shook away the black disturbances, in all the world could be so sweet as this: cursed, prayed to, hated, loved, a leader?

  “You put the strength in our arms, boy!”

  I’ve got to write to Max, he thought, and walked across the buckling floor.

  He turned the knob and went into his room.

  It was cave-black, but Adam knew, before he flipped the switch, that someone else was there.

  He turned and faced his visitor.

  “Hello, Sam,” he said. “When’d you get back?”

  22

  —Afterwards, she had lain on the bed, unmoving, cold as she had never been before. There were no tears left. Deep inside her chest a pain was throbbing, in her head it throbbed, because she could not stop her crying—but the tears were gone.

  She did not move.

  The bed was rumpled, sodden with the oils that had come rushing from her body, joining his, her sweat, his sweat, together; in the center was a stain, still fresh.

  She forced herself to touch it.

  She forced herself to bring the smells into her nostrils, breathing deeply, locking them inside forever.

  He was here, on top of me, she told herself. He was a stranger, I didn’t like him, he didn’t like me, but when he came on top of me I spread my legs apart and let him do it.

  I didn’t have to.

  I could have screamed. You say it was terrible, you didn’t like it, but you know that isn’t true. He didn’t rape you. All you had to do was scream.

  But you didn’t.

  Instead, when he held off, you moved up and down, and you wanted to beg him to come, now, now!

  So you’re not cured.

  And you can’t blame him, because there was bound to be an Adam Cramer, somewhere, some time. It was bound to happen.

  Vy Griffin ran her fingers along her body, which was still moist with perspiration. She clutched her breasts. The nipples were tender. She touched her lips and remembered how she had pressed them against his and locked that memory also.

  Don’t forget any of it, she thought.

  Not ever.

  She moved suddenly, firmly, and switched on the light, and looked at the bed. Then at the robe that lay where it had been thrown, next to the bed.

  Then she moved to the mirror.

  She stared at the reflection of her naked self.

  No; don’t look away, she thought. It’s you, Mrs. Griffin.

  It’s what you really are.

  She st
ared for almost a full minute, then turned and went into the bathroom. She ran the water until it was hot, took a bath, dressed in her green dress and packed one medium-sized suitcase, filling it mainly with clothes and items of utility.

  When this was finished, she soaked a washrag in cold water and scrubbed the stains from the bed, and made the bed.

  Satisfied that she had been thorough, she took a business letter from an envelope and turned it over to the blank side.

  She hesitated a long moment.

  Then she wrote a note quickly, and inserted it in the crack between the frame and the mirror.

  She looked once at the room, turned and walked out into the quiet hall.

  Mrs. Pearl Lambert was not in the lobby.

  The ladies on the couch did not notice her.

  She walked very fast until she reached the highway; then she began walking slowly.

  Within twenty minutes a gray Plymouth sedan pulled up.

  “Want a lift?” the man in the car said.

  Vy Griffin said “No”; then, before the door closed again, she said “Yes.”

  “Going far?”

  “Yes,” she said, and got in—

  “How are things, Sam?”

  The big man was perspiring. His face was red, and there were still the laughter lines about the mouth; but he looked different.

  “All right,” he said.

  “Good!”

  Adam tried to be casual, but his mind worked quickly. Probably, he thought, she’s told him about it. Probably that’s it. It wouldn’t be in character for him to break into my room otherwise.

  But, don’t second-guess him. Hang on.

  “How’d you do in Farragut? Sell many—what is it?—pens?”

  Sam Griffin moved his head up and down, slowly.

  “Well now, I’m glad to hear it. Uh . . . did you want to see me about something? To tell you the truth, I’m kind of pooped. I—”

  The big man rose suddenly; his fists were clenched. “Adam,” he said, “I know this isn’t any of your business, and I got no right to be bothering you with it—but I got to talk to somebody! I just got to. I’ll go crazy if I don’t!”

  Adam hesitated; then he moved toward Griffin. “Sam,” he said, “what’s the matter? Is something wrong?”

  The big man nodded. “It’s my business, though,” he said. “I don’t know why I come busting in here. Mrs. Pearl Lambert give me the key. You’ve got your own problems, I guess—everybody does.” He started for the door. “I’m sorry.”

  “Wait a minute. Hold on, now,” Adam said. “I thought we were friends.”

  Griffin stood still, breathing heavily. He seemed lost, afraid, like some gigantic animal.

  “Aren’t we friends, Sam?”

  “Sure, I guess. Sure. But you’re tired—”

  “Not any more.” Adam took the man’s arm. “Sit down over there, Sam. Right now. And tell me what’s on your mind. Maybe I can help.”

  “No. You can’t help.”

  “I can listen, anyway. Come on.”

  Griffin paused. Then, still breathing heavily, he turned and walked to the bed and sat down. Several times he opened his mouth, and closed it.

  Then he got up and walked to the wall. He turned away and his thick red fist smashed against the plaster, hard.

  “She’s gone,” he said.

  “Who is?”

  “Vy,” he said. “She’s gone. Left me. Ran out.”

  He began to pound the wall, but Adam said, “Sam!” and he stopped. “Sam, pull yourself together. Listen, I’m no stranger—we settled that the first day we met. I like you one hell of a lot. And I’m happy you came to me. Really. Now take it easy, and tell me everything. From the beginning.”

  Griffin did not turn. His voice was like a sob.

  “I—come home from Farragut,” he said, “about two o’clock. I had a lot of presents, little things I picked up for her. I knew she’d like them. Costume jewelry, pretty good stuff. Vy loves jewelry.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I come upstairs and I opened the door, the door to our room. It was empty. She wasn’t there. I thought that was kind of funny, but maybe I missed her in the lobby. You know, maybe she was watching TV with Mrs. Pearl Lambert and just didn’t see me when I come in. So I went back downstairs. But she wasn’t there, either. That’s when I started to get a little scared. I went back to the room and hollered for her, then I found the note.”

  He reached in his pocket and took out a piece of paper and read it.

  “May I see the note?” Adam said.

  Griffin handed it to him and turned again, facing the window this time.

  Adam read:

  Dear Sam:

  I know this is going to hurt you terribly but I can’t go on lying to you anymore. The marriage isn’t working. I thought it would I really did, and you gave me some wonderful years, Sam, but—I’m no good for you. It’s all over and I’m leaving you. Don’t try to look for me, it’s finished. Believe me I’m no good for you. You’re a wonderful person and maybe you’ll find a nice woman it cant be me. I loved you, really. Forgive me.

  Vy

  He put the note on the dresser, walked over to Griffin and touched his shoulder.

  “I’m really very, very sorry.”

  Griffin nodded. “We was planning a little farm,” he said, “and maybe some kids. That’s what I was working for. Now I don’t have nothing to work for. The one thing that meant something to me, the one thing that was good and fine in my life—is gone.”

  Adam pressed the man’s shoulder again and walked back across the room. “Do you have any idea,” he said, “why she’d do a thing like this? I mean, it was pretty obvious that you were better to her than most husbands are to their wives. And, like I say, she seemed to be happy. I mean, everything seemed to be fine!”

  Griffin was silent. “I think—” he said.

  “Yes?”

  “I think I can maybe guess part of the reason.”

  “Oh? What is it you think?”

  “Well,” Griffin said, “I’ve never told anyone this, but I’m going to tell you, Adam. You—understand things. I seen that right away. So I’m going to tell you this secret. When I first met Vy in New York, she was—well, I’ll be honest. She was what they call a professional woman. But not like the others. No. It’s hard to put, but—Vy was a good person. Except, she had this itch, and there wasn’t nothing she could do about it. Doctors got a name for it, maybe you heard. They can’t cure it alone no more than they can cure every kind of headache, see, because it isn’t like with a broken leg or a case of diphtheria or something. No; they got to have help, from the patient. But Vy couldn’t believe in all that talk, she didn’t think she was really sick. She thought—well, that God was punishing her for something, and that it was His curse. And with an attitude like that, there wasn’t nothing a body could do for her. Before, I mean. Before I met her.”

  “Go on,” Adam said.

  “I never told anybody this.”

  “I know that, Sam, and I appreciate your faith in me. It goes without saying that I’ll respect the confidence.”

  The big man still did not move. His back was to Adam. “Well, we met, like I said, and I fell in love with her. Underneath all the city hardness, I saw there was a fine woman. It’s my business to know these things about people. And I knew. It took a long time to convince her, but finally I did, and we got married. She told me she was happy and wouldn’t cheat on me. And she never, either. For five years we was just as happy as two pigs in the sunshine.”

  There was a silence.

  “Well, it certainly beats me,” Adam said. “You say you’ve got a theory?”

  “I think so,” Griffin said. “The way I figure it, she must of got into some trouble.”

  “What sort of trouble?”

  “Man trouble,” Griffin said. “Some fella or other must of caught her at a weak moment. And she just, like they say, reverted back. What do you think, Adam? You think t
hat might be it?”

  “Well, it’s possible, I suppose,” Adam said. “But, somehow, I can’t bring myself to believe it of Mrs. Griffin. She doesn’t seem to be that type at all, you know? Sam—judging from what you say, couldn’t it be equally possible that maybe she just got bored here in Caxton? Maybe she just got bored and, you know, restless. Was it her period? Some women get that way during their period, I hear. It affects their minds.”

  “No,” Griffin said, “I’m sure it didn’t happen that way. It was a man.”

  “But who? Who would do a thing like that?”

  Sam Griffin turned.

  “You,” he said. In his right hand was the gun Preston Haller had given Adam. It looked very small, and unreal.

  The expression on Griffin’s face was unlike anything Adam had seen there, or suspected could ever be there; an expression of emotions a man like this could not possibly feel. The eyes were very clear. And there was a new, thin smile, not at all like Sam Griffin’s usual smile.

  “You don’t need to bother thinking up a lot of talk,” he said. “I know what happened. This is an old hotel. The walls are thin. The floors are thin. Mrs. Carstairs told me all about it.”

  Adam stared at the gun, fascinated. “Sam,” he said softly, “I wasn’t going to deny it. The reason I didn’t tell you before was just that I didn’t want to hurt you more than you’ve been hurt already. Really. Honest, that’s the truth.” He felt the perspiration gather and trail down his sides, and he felt the fast, trip-hammer beat of his heart high in his throat. “Blame me, if you want to. But before you—Sam, listen, I’m going to level with you. It was a lot my fault now, sure, I won’t pretend it wasn’t. But you asked me to cheer her up—you remember, you asked me that?—and I went into her room for that reason, you understand? We were talking, just, you know, talking, when—I don’t know, everything started to go wrong. This is going to hurt you. She had on a robe, that flowered one. And she kind of let it slip apart. I tried not to look, but Jesus Christ, Sam, you know people—that’s your business—and you know how much a man can stand. After all, your wife is a very attractive woman.” He stopped and tried to swallow. “Well, I’ll agree all the way with you, that’s when I should have left. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. It happened so fast—can’t you understand?”