When he went into his room he saw Margaret for a moment and then she was gone.
He sat on the bed and proceeded to remove his clothes. They were dainty clothes, thin and worn, demanding of great care. He took them off lightly with a light touch and looked at each garment for a long time.
The patent leather shoes, the pink stockings, the pale yellow dress—he laid them neatly on the sofa and looked at them. Then, when all the clothes had been removed, he went to the mirror and looked into it.
Robert didn’t know what he saw and he shook his head. Nothing seemed clear; one moment he felt like shouting and another, like going to sleep. Then he became frightened and leapt into the large easy chair, where he drew his legs and arms about him. He sat whimpering softly, with his eyes open, dreaming.
A little bird flew out of a corner and fluttered its wings at him. Margaret’s wing, the one Miss Gentilbelle had cut off, fell from the ceiling into his lap and he held it to his face before it disappeared.
Presently the room was full of birds, all fluttering their wings and crying, crying to Robert. He cried, too, but softly.
He pulled his arms and legs closer to him and wrenched at the blond curls that fell across his eyes. The birds flew at him and around him and then their wings started to fall off. And as they did, the brown liquid he remembered soaked into all the feathers. Some of it got on Robert and when it did, he cried aloud and shut his eyes.
Then the room seemed empty. There were no birds. Just a puppy. A little dog with its belly laid open, crawling up to Robert in a wake of spilled entrails, looking into his eyes.
Robert fell to the floor and rolled over several times, his body quivering, flecks of saliva streaming from his lips.
“Edna, Edna, don’t go away.”
The puppy tried to walk further but could not. Its round low body twitched like Robert’s, and it made snuffling noises.
Robert crawled to a corner.
“Edna, please. It wasn’t me, it wasn’t, really . . .”
And then a cloud of blackness covered Robert’s mind, and he dropped his head on his breast.
When awakened he was in bed and Drake was standing over him, shaking his shoulders.
“Bobbie, what is it?”
“I don’t know. All of a sudden I saw Margaret and Edna and all the birds. They were mad, Drake. They were mad!”
The man stroked Robert’s forehead gently.
“It’s all right. You don’t have to be afraid now. You just had a bad nightmare, that’s all. I found you laying on the floor.”
“It seemed very real this time.”
“I know. They sometimes do. Why, I could hear you crying all the way down the hall!”
“She didn’t hear me, did she?”
“No, she didn’t hear you.”
Then Robert saw the heavy brown bag. “Drake, why have you got that suitcase?”
The man coughed and tried to kick the bag underneath the bed. “It’s nothing. Just some equipment for the yard.”
“No, no it isn’t, Drake. I can tell. You’re going away!”
“It’s equipment for the yard, I tell you.”
“Please don’t go away, Drake. Please don’t. Please don’t.”
The man tightened his fists and coughed again.
“Now you look, Bobbie. I’ve just got to go away for a little trip, and I’ll be back before you know it. And maybe then we can go off somewhere together. I’m going to find out about it, but you mustn’t say a word to your mother. Hear?”
Robert looked up, confused. Something fluttered. He could see it, from the corner of his eye.
The man was dirty and he smelled of alcohol, but it made Robert feel good when he touched him.
“Really? You mean us?”
“Bobbie. You’ve got to tell me something first. Do you love your mother?”
He didn’t have to think about it. “No, she always kills things, and always hurts things. I don’t love her.”
The man spoke under his breath. “I’ve wanted to do this for a long time.”
Something crawled in a corner. Robert could almost see it. “Drake,” he said, “have you ever killed anything?”
Perspiration stood out on the man’s forehead. He answered as if he had not heard.
“Only once, Bobbie. Only once did I kill.”
“What was it? An animal?”
“No. It was worse, Bobbie. I killed a human spirit—a soul.”
“Mother does it all the time!”
“I know. There’s been a lot of death in this house. . . . But here now, lad, are you over your nightmare?”
Robert tried not to look up.
“Are we really going away when you get back? Away from Mother and this place, just you and me, Drake? Promise me?”
“Yes, boy. Yes, we are!”
The man took Robert’s hand in his and held it hard.
“Now you see here. If she learns of this there’ll be a lot of trouble. Something might go wrong. So, whatever you do, don’t you let on to her what’s happened. I’ll see the authorities and tell them everything and you’ll get out of here. And we’ll be free, you and me, boy!”
Robert didn’t say anything. He was looking at a corner.
“Bobbie, you’re not old enough yet to know everything about your mother. She wasn’t always like she is now. And I wasn’t, either. Something just happened and . . . well, I’ll tell you about it later so you’ll understand. But right now, I want you to do something. After I leave, you get yourself another little pet, a frog or something. Keep it in this room. She’ll know nothing’s changed, then. She’ll know you haven’t been talking to me. Get that frog, Bobbie, and I’ll be back so that you can have it always as a friend. Always.
“Goodbye, lad. You’ll not be staying with that crazy woman much longer, I promise you.”
Robert smiled and watched Drake go toward the door.
“Will you really come back, Drake?”
“Nothing on earth is going to stop me, son. I knew that when I saw you last night; I knew it when you asked me those questions. The first normal things I’d heard for . . . Yes, son, I’ll be back for you.”
Robert did not understand much. Only about the frog. He would find himself a pet and keep it.
The movement in the corners had stopped, and Robert could think for only a little while before he fell into a sound sleep. So sound a sleep that he did not hear Miss Gentilbelle coming up the stairs and he did not see her face when she stepped into the room.
“Roberta, you’re late. You were told to be downstairs promptly at twelve thirty and instead I find you resting like a lady of great leisure. Get up, girl!”
Robert’s eyes opened and he wanted to scream.
Then he apologized, remembering to mention nothing of Drake. He put on his dress quickly and went downstairs after Miss Gentilbelle.
He scarcely knew what he was eating; the food was tasteless in his mouth. But he remembered things and answered questions as he always had before.
During dessert Miss Gentilbelle folded her book and laid it aside.
“Mr. Franklin has gone away. Did you know that?”
“No, Mother, I did not. Where has he gone?”
“Not very far—he will be back. He’s sure to come back; he always does. Roberta, did Mr. Franklin say anything to you before he left?”
“No, Mother, he did not. I didn’t know Mr. Franklin had gone away.”
Robert looked at Miss Gentilbelle’s hands, watched the way the thin fingers curled about themselves, how they arched delicately in the air.
He looked at the yellow band and again at the fingers. Such white fingers, such dry, white fingers. . . .
“Mother.”
“Yes?”
“May I go into the yard for a little while?”
“Yes. You have been naughty and kept me waiting dinner but I shall not punish you. See you remember the kindness and be in the living room in one half hour. You have your criticism to write.”
“Yes, Mother.”
Robert walked down the steps and into the yard. A soft breeze went through his hair and lifted the golden curls and billowed out his dress. The sun shone hotly but he did not notice. He walked to the first clump of trees and sat carefully on the grass. He waited.
And then, after a time, a plump frog hopped into the clearing and Robert quickly cupped his hands over it. The frog leapt about violently, bumping its body against Robert’s palms, and then it was still.
Robert loosened the thin cloth belt around his waist and put the frog under his dress, so that it did not protrude noticeably.
Then he stroked its back from outside the dress. The frog did not squirm or resist.
Robert thought a while.
“I shall call you Drake,” he said.
When Robert re-entered the kitchen he saw that Miss Gentilbelle was still reading. He excused himself and went up to his bedroom, softly, so that he would not be heard, and hid the frog in his dresser.
He began to feel odd then. Saliva was forming inside his mouth, boiling hot.
The corners of the room looked alive.
He went downstairs.
“. . . and Jeanne d’Arc was burned at the stake, her body consumed by flames. And there was only the sound of the flames, and of crackling straw and wood: she did not cry out once.” Miss Gentilbelle sighed. “There was punishment for you, Roberta. Do you profit from her story?”
Robert said yes, he had profited.
“So it is with life. The Maid of Orleans was innocent of any crime; she was filled with the greatest virtue and goodness, yet they murdered her. Her own people turned upon her and burnt the flesh away from her bones! Roberta—this is my question. What would you have done if you’d been Jeanne d’Arc and could have lived beyond the stake?”
“I—don’t know.”
“That,” said Miss Gentilbelle, “is your misfortune. I must speak with you now. I’ve purposely put off this discussion so that you might think. But you’ve thought and remain bathed in your own iniquity. Child, did you honestly suspect that you could go babbling about the house with that drunken fool without my knowledge?”
Robert’s heart froze; the hurting needles came.
“I listened to you, and heard a great deal of what was said. First, let us have an answer to a question. Do you think that you are a boy?”
Robert did not answer.
“You do.” Miss Gentilbelle moved close. “Well, as it happens, you are not. Not in any sense of the word. For men are animals—do you understand? Tell me, are you an animal or a human being, Roberta?”
“A human being.”
“Exactly! Then obviously you cannot be a boy, isn’t that so? You are a girl, a young lady: never, never forget that. Do you hear?”
“Yes, Mother.”
“That, however, is not the purpose of this discussion.” Miss Gentilbelle calmed swiftly. “I am not disturbed that your mind plays tricks on you. No. What does disturb me is that you should lie and cheat so blatantly to your mother. You see, I heard your talking.”
Robert’s head throbbed uncontrollably. His temples seemed about to burst with pain.
“So—he has gone to get authorities to take you away from me! Because your mother is so cruel to you, so viciously cruel to the innocent young child! And you will both ride off on a white horse to wonderful lands where no one is mean. . . .” Her cheeks trembled. Her eyes seemed glazed. “Roberta, can you be so naïve? Mr. Franklin is accustomed to such promises: I know.” She put a hand to her brow, moved thin fingers across the flesh. “At this moment,” she said, distantly, “he is in a bar, drinking himself into a stupor. Or perhaps one of the Negro brothels—I understand he’s a well-known figure there.”
Miss Gentilbelle did not smile. Robert was confused: this was unlike her. He could catch just a little something in her eyes.
“And so you listened to him and loved him and you wait for him. I understand, Roberta; I understand very well indeed. You love the gardener and you will go away with him!” Something happened; her tone changed, abruptly. It was no longer soft and distant. “You must be punished. It ought to be enough when you finally realize that your Drake will never come back to carry you off. But—it is not enough. There must be more.”
Robert heard very little now.
“Stop gazing off as if you didn’t hear me. Now—bring your little friend here.”
Robert felt the seed growing within him. He could feel it hard and growing inside his heart. And he couldn’t think now.
Miss Gentilbelle took Robert’s wrist in her hand and clutched it until her nails bit deep into the flesh. “I saw you put that animal in your dress and take it upstairs. Fetch it to me this instant.”
Robert looked into his mother’s eyes. Miss Gentilbelle stood above him, her hands clasped now to the frayed white collars of her dress. She was trembling and her words did not quite knit together.
“Get it, bring it to me, to me. Do you hear?”
Robert nodded dumbly, and went upstairs to his room. It was alive. Birds filled it, and puppies. Little puppies, crying, whimpering with pain.
He walked straight to the dresser and withdrew the frog, holding it securely in his hand.
Green and white wings brushed his face as he went back toward the door.
He walked downstairs and into the living room. Miss Gentilbelle was standing in the doorway; her eyes danced over the wriggling animal.
Robert said nothing as they walked into the kitchen.
“I am sure, Roberta, that when you see this—and when you see that no one ever comes to take you away—that the best thing is merely to be a good girl. It is enough. To be a good girl and do as Mother says.”
She took the frog and held it tightly. She did not seem to notice that Robert’s mouth was moist, that his eyes stared directly through her.
She did not seem to hear the birds and the puppies whispering to Robert, or see them clustering about him.
She held the frog in one hand, and with the other pulled a large knife from the knife-holder. It was rusted and without luster, but its edge was keen enough, and its point sharp.
“You must think about this, child. About how you forced your mother into punishing you.” She smiled. “Tell me this: have you named your little friend?”
“Yes. His name is Drake.”
“Drake! How very appropriate!”
Miss Gentilbelle did not look at her son. She put the frog on the table and turned it over on its back. The creature thrashed violently.
Then she put the point of the knife on the frog’s belly, paused, waited, and pushed inwards. The frog twitched as she held it and drew the blade slowly across, slowly, deep inside the animal.
In a while, when it had quieted, she dropped the frog into a box of kindling.
She did not see Robert pick up the knife and hold it in his hand.
Robert had stopped thinking. Snowy flecks of saliva dotted his face, and his eyes had no life to them. He listened to his friends. The puppies, crawling about his feet, yipping painfully. The birds, dropping their bloody wings, flying crazily about his head, screaming, calling. And now the frogs, hopping, croaking. . . .
He did not think. He listened.
“Yes . . . yes.”
Miss Gentilbelle turned quickly, and her laughter died as she did so. She threw her hands out and cried—but the knife was already sliding through her pale dress, and through her pale flesh.
The birds screeched and the puppies howled and the frogs croaked. Yes, yes, yes, yes!
And the knife came out and went in again, it came out and went in again.
Then Robert slipped on the wet floor and fell. He rolled over and over, crying softly, and laughing, and making other sounds.
Miss Gentilbelle said nothing. Her thin white fingers were curled about the handle of the butcher knife, but she no longer tried to pull it from her stomach.
Presently her wracked breathing stopped.
Robe
rt rolled into a corner, and drew his legs and arms about him, tight.
He held the dead frog to his face and whispered to it. . . .
The large red-faced man walked heavily through the cypressed land. He skillfully avoided bushes and pits and came, finally, to the clearing that was the entrance to the great house.
He walked to the wrought-iron gate that joined to the high brick wall that was topped with broken glass and curved spikes.
He opened the gate, crossed the yard, and went up the decaying, splintered steps.
He applied a key to the old oak door.
“Minnie!” he called. “Got a little news for you! Hey, Minnie!”
The silent stairs answered him.
He went into the living room, upstairs to Robert’s room.
“Minnie!”
He walked back to the hallway. An uncertain grin covered his face. “They’re not going to let you keep him! How’s that? How do you like it?”
The warm bayou wind sighed through the shutters.
The man made fists with his fingers, paused, walked down the hall, and opened the kitchen door.
The sickly odor went to his nostrils first. The words “Jesus God” formed on his lips, but he made no sound.
He stood very still, for a long time.
The blood on Miss Gentilbelle’s face had dried, but on her hands and where it had gathered on the floor, it was still moist.
Her fingers were stiff around the knife.
The man’s eyes traveled to the far corner. Robert was huddled there, chanting softly—flat, dead, singsong words.
“. . . wicked . . . must be punished . . . wicked girl . . .”
Robert threw his head back and smiled up at the ceiling.
The man walked to the corner and lifted Robert to his chest and held him tightly, crushingly.
“Bobbie,” he said. “Bobbie. Bobbie. Bobbie.”
The warm night wind turned cold.
It sang through the halls and through the rooms of the great house in the forest.
And then it left, frightened and alone.
The Vanishing American
He got the notion shortly after five o’clock; at least, a part of him did, a small part hidden down beneath all the conscious cells—he didn’t get the notion until some time later. At exactly five p.m., the bell rang. At two minutes after, the chairs began to empty. There was the vast slamming of drawers, the straightening of rulers, the sound of bones snapping and mouths yawning and feet shuffling tiredly.
The Hunger and Other Stories Page 3
