by James Gunn
Lola had finally located the elusive sausages. She drew them out of their intimate hiding place with a shout of triumph. They whipped into the open mouth of the lunging trucker. He stopped, transfixed, strangling.
"Argh-gh-uggle!" he said.
A cup crashed against the wall, close to Matt's head. Matt ducked. If he could get over the back of this booth, he could reach the door. The place was filled with angry shouts and angrier faces and bulky shoulders approaching. Lola took one frightened look and grabbed Matt around the knees.
"Protect me!" she said wildly.
The air was filled with missiles. Matt reached down to disengage Lola's fear-strengthened arms. He glanced up to see the trucker spitting out the last of the sausages. With a maddened yell, the trucker threw a heavy fist at Matt. Hampered as he was, Matt threw himself back hopelessly. Something ripped. The fist breezed past and crashed through a window.
Matt hung over the back of the booth, head downward, unable to get back up, unable to shake Lola loose. Everywhere he looked he could see rage-inflamed faces. He closed his eyes and surrendered himself to his fate.
From somewhere, above the tumult, came the sound of laughter, like the tinkling of little silver bells.
Then Matt was outside with no idea of how he had got there. In his hand was a strip of thin fabric. Lola's blouse. 'Poor Lola,' he thought, as he threw it away. What was his fatal fascination for girls?
Behind him the diner was alive with lights and the crash of dishes and the smacking of fists on flesh. Before long they would discover that he was gone.
Matt ran to his car. It started to life when he punched the button. He backed it up, screeched it to a stop, jerked into first, and barreled onto the driveway. Within twenty seconds, he was doing sixty.
He turned to look back at the diner and almost lost control of the car as he tried to absorb the implications of the contents on the back seat.
Resting neatly there were his typewriter, notes, and all his clothes.
When Matt pulled to a stop on the streets of Clinton, he was feeling easier mentally and much worse physically. The dip in a secluded stream near the road, the change of clothes, and the shave -- torturing as it had been in cold water -- had refreshed him for a while. But that had worn off, and the lack of a night's sleep and twenty-four hours without food were catching up with him.
Better that, he thought grimly, than Abbie. He could endure anything for a time.
As for the typewriter and the notes and the clothes, there was probably some simple exphnatlon. The one Matt liked best was that Abbie had had a change of heart; she had expected him to leave and she had made his way easy. She was, Matt thought, a kind-hearted child underneath it all.
The trouble with that explanation was that Matt didn't believe it.
He shrugged. There were more pressing things -- money, for instance. Gas was getting low, and he needed to get something in his stomach if he was to keep up his strength for the long drive ahead. He had to cash one of his checks. That seemed simple enough. The bank was at the corner of this block. It was eleven o'clock. The bank would be open. Naturally they would cash a check.
But for some reason Matt felt uneasy.
Matt walked into the bank and went directly to a window. He countersigned one of the checks and presented it to the teller, a thin little man with a wispy mustache and a bald spot on top of his head. The teller compared the signatures and turned to the shelf at his side where bills stood in piles, some still wrapped. He counted out four twenties, a ten, a five, and five ones.
"Here you are, sir," he said politely.
Matt accepted it only because his hand was outstretched and the teller put the money in it. His eyes were fixed in horror upon a wrapped bundle of twenty-dollar bills which was slowing rising from the shelf. It climbed leisurely over the top of the cage.
"What's the matter, sir?" the teller asked in alarm. "Do you feel sick?"
Matt nodded once and then tore his eyes away and shook his head vigorously. "No," he gasped. "I'm all right." He took a step back from the window.
"Are you sure? You don't look well at all."
With a shrinking feeling, Matt felt something fumble its way into his right-hand coat pocket. He plunged his hand in after it. His empty stomach revolved in his abdomen. He could not mistake the touch of crisp paper. He stooped quickly beneath the teller's window. The teller leaned out. Matt straightened up, the package of bills in his hand.
"I guess you must have dropped this," he muttered.
The teller glanced at the shelf and back at the sheaf of twenties. "I don't see how -- But thank you! That's the funniest -- "
Matt pushed the bills under the grillwork. "Yes, isn't it," he agreed hurriedly, "Well, thank you."
"Thank you!"
Matt lifted his hand. The money lifted with it. The package stuck to his hand as if it had been attached with glue.
"Excuse me," he said feebly. "I can't seem to get rid of this money." He shook his hand. The money clung stubbornly. He shook his hand again, violently. The package of bills did not budge.
"Very funny," the teller said, but he was not smiling. From his tone of voice, Matt suspected that he thought money was a very serious business indeed. The teller reached under the bars and caught hold of one end of the package. "You can let go now," he said. "Let go!"
Matt tried to pull his hand away. "I can't!" he said, breathing heavily.
The teller tugged, Matt tugged. "I haven't time to play games," the teller panted. "Let go!"
"I don't want it," Matt said frantically. "But it seems to be stuck. Look!" He showed his hand, fingers spread wide.
The teller grabbed the bundle of bills with both hands and braced his feet against the front of his cubicle. "Let go!" he shouted.
Matt pulled hard. Suddenly the tension on his arm vanished. His arm whipped back. The teller disappeared into the bottom of the cubicle. Something clanged hollowly. Matt looked at his hand. The bills were gone.
Slowly the teller's head appeared from the concealed part of the cubicle. It came up, accompanied by groans, with a red swelling in the middle of the bald spot. After it came the teller's hand, waving the package of twenties triumphantly. The other hand was rubbing his head.
"Are you still here?" he demanded, slamming the bills down at his side. "Get out of this bank. And if you ever come back I'll have you arrested for -- for disturbing the peace."
"Don't worry," Matt said. "I won't be back." His face suddenly grew pale. "Stop," he said frantically, waving his arms. "Go back!"
The teller stared at him, fearfully, indecisively.
The bundle of twenties was rising over the top of the cage again. Instinctively, Matt grabbed them out of the air. His mind clicked rapidly. If he was to keep out of jail, there was only one thing to do. He advanced on the teller angrily, waving the bills in the air.
"What do you mean by throwing these at me!"
"Throwing money?" the teller said weakly. "Me?"
Matt shook the bills in front of the teller's nose. "What do you call this?"
The clerk glanced at the money and down at his side. "Oh, no!" he moaned.
"I have a good mind," Matt said violently, "to complain to the president of this bank." He slammed the bills down. He closed his eyes in a silent prayer. "Tellers throwing money around!"
He took his hand away. Blissfully, the money stayed where it was on the counter. The teller reached for it feebly. The package shifted. He reached again. The bills slid away. He stuck both hands through the slot and groped wildly. The money slipped between his arms into the cage.
Matt stood shifting his weight from foot to foot, paralyzed between flight and fascination. The bundle winged its way around in the cage like a drunken butterfly. Wide-eyed and frantic, the teller chased it from side to side. He made great diving swoops for it, his hands cupped into a net. He crept up on it and pounced, catlike, only to have it slip between his fingers at the last moment. Suddenly he stopped, frozen. His hands
flew to his head.
"My God!" he screamed. "What am I doing? I'm mad!"
Matt backed toward the door. The other clerks and tellers were running toward the center of the disturbance. Matt saw a dignified gentleman with a paunch stand up inside a railed-in office and hurdle the obstacle with fine show of athletic form.
Matt turned and ran, dodging the guard at the gate. "Get the doctor," he yelled.
From somewhere came the sound of a tinkling of little silver bells.
There was no doubt in Matt's mind as he gunned his car out of Clinton. Abbie was after him. He had not been free a moment. All the time she had known where to find him. He was the fleeing mouse, happy in his illusion of freedom -- until the cat's paw comes down on his back. Matt thought of the Furies -- awful Alecto, Tisiphone, Megaera -- in their blood-stained robes and serpent hair pursuing him across the world with their terrible whips. But they all had Abbie's face.
Matt drove north toward Kansas City, thirsty, starving, half dead from fatigue, wondering hopelessly where it would end.
Darkening shades of violet were creeping up the eastern sky as Matt reached Lawrence, Kansas. He had not tried to stop in Kansas City. Something had drawn him on, some buried hope that still survived feebly, and when, five miles from Lawrence, he had seen Mount Oread rise against the sunset, the white spires and red tile roofs of the university gleaming like beacons, he had known what it was.
Here was a citadel of knowledge, a fortress of the world's truth against black waves of ignorance and superstition. Here, in this saner atmosphere of study and reflection, logic and cool consideration, here, if anywhere, he could shake off this dark conviction of doom that sapped his will. Here, surely, he could think more clearly, act more decisively, rid himself of this demon of vengeance that rode his shoulders. Here he could get help.
He drove down Massachusetts Street, his body leaden with fatigue, his eyes red-rimmed and shadowed, searching restlessly from side to side. His hunger was only a dull ache; he could almost forget it. But his thirst was a live thing. Somewhere -- he could not remember where -- he had eaten and drunk, but the meal had vanished from his throat as he swallowed.
'Is there no end?' he thought wildly. 'Is there no way out?' There was, of course. There always is. 'Always -- Mary had a little lamb . . .'
Impulse swung his car into the diagonal parking space. First he was going to drink and eat, come what may. He walked into the restaurant. Summer students filled the room, young men in sport shirts and slacks, girls in gay cotton prints and saddle shoes, laughing, talking, eating . . .
Swaying in the doorway, Matt watched them, bleary-eyed. 'Once I was like them,' he thought dully. 'Young and alive and conscious that these were the best years I would ever know. Now I am old and used up, doomed . . .'
He slumped down at a table near the front, filled with a great surge of sorrow that all happiness was behind him. He was conscious that the waitress was beside him. "Soup," he mumbled. "Soup and milk." He did not look up.
"Yes, sir," she said. Her voice sounded vaguely familiar, but they are all the same, all the voices of youth. He had eaten here before. He did not look up.
Slowly he raised the glass of water to his lips. It went down his throat in dusty gulps. It spread out in his stomach in cool, blessed waves. Matt closed his eyes thankfully. The hunger pains began to return. For a moment Matt regretted the soup and wished he had ordered steak.
'After the soup,' he thought.
The soup came. Matt lifted a spoonful. He let it trickle down his throat.
"Feelin' better, Mr. Wright?" said the waitress.
Matt looked up. He strangled. It was Abbie! Abbie's face bending over him. Matt choked and spluttered. Students turned to stare. Matt gazed around the room wildly. The girls -- they all looked like Abbie. He stood up, almost knocking over the table as he ran to the front door.
With his hand on the doorknob, he stopped, paralyzed. Staring in at him, through the glass, was a pair of bloodshot eyes set above an unruly black nest. Stooped, powerful shoulders loomed behind the face. As Matt stared back, the eyes lighted up as if they recognized him.
"Argh-gh!" Matt screamed.
He staggered back and turned on trembling legs. He tottered toward the back of the restaurant. The aisle seemed full of feet put out to trip him. He stumbled to the swinging kitchen door and broke through into odors of frying and baking that no longer moved him.
The cook looked up, startled. Matt ran on through the kitchen and plunged through the back door. The alley was dark. Matt barked his shins on a box. He limped on, cursing. At one end of the alley a street light spread a pool of welcome. Matt ran toward it. He was panting. His heart beat fast. Then it almost stopped. A shadow lay along the mouth of the alley. A long shadow with huge shoulders and something that waved from the chin.
Matt spun. He ran frantically toward the other end of the alley. His mind raced like an engine that has broken its governor. Nightmarish terror streaked through his arms and legs; they seemed distant and leaden. But slowly he approached the other end. He came nearer. Nearer.
A shadow detached itself from the dark back walls. But it was no shadow. Matt slowed, stopped. The shadow came closer, towering tall above him. Matt cowered, unable to move. Closer. Two long arms reached out toward him. Matt quivered. He waited for the end. The arms wrapped around him. They drew him close.
"Son, son," Jenkins said weakly. "Yore the first familiar face I seen all day."
Matt's heart started beating again. He drew back, extracting his face from Jenkins' redolent beard.
"Cain't understand what's goin' on these days," Jenkins said, shaking his head sadly, "but I got a feelin' Ab's behint it. Just as that fight got goin' good, the whole shebang disappeared and here I was. Where am I, son?"
Matt said. "Lawrence, Kansas."
"Kansas?" Jenkins wobbled his beard. "Last I heard, Kansas was dry, but it cain't be half as dry as I am. I recollect hearin' Quantrill burned this town. Too bad it didn't stay burned. Here I was without a penny in my pocket and only what was left in the bottle I had in my hand to keep me from dyin' of thirst. Son," he said sorrowfully, "somethin's got to be done. It's Ab, ain't it?"
Matt nodded.
"Son," Jenkins went on, "I'm gettin' too old for this kind of life. I should be sittin' on my porch with a jug in my lap, just a-rockin' slow. Somethin's got to be done about that gal."
"I'm afraid it's too late for that," Matt said.
"That's the trouble," Jenkins said mournfully. "Been too late for these six years. Son, yore an edycated man. What we gonna do?"
"I can't tell you, Jenkins," Matt said. "I can't even think about it." 'Mary had a little lamb' . . . "If I did, it wouldn't work. But if you want to hit me, go ahead. I'm the man who's responsible."
Jenkins put a large hand on his shoulder. "Don't worry about it, son. If it weren't you, it would've been some other man. When Ab gets a notion, you cain't beat it out of her. I learned that years ago."
Matt pulled out his billfold and handed Jenkins a five-dollar bill. "Here. Kansas isn't dry any more. Go get something and try to forget. Maybe when you're finished with that, things will have changed."
"Yore a good boy, son. Don't do nothin' rash."
'Mary had a little lamb' . . .
Jenkins turned, raising his hand in a parting salute. Matt watched the mountainous shadow dwindle, as if it was his last contact with the living. Then Jenkins rounded the corner and was out of sight.
Matt walked slowly back to Massachusetts Street. There was one more thing he had to do.
As he reached the car, Matt sensed Abbie's nearness. The awareness was so sharp that it was almost physical. He felt her all around, like dancing motes of dust that are only visible under certain conditions, half angel, half devil, half love, half hate. It was an unendurable mixture, an impossible combination to live with. The extremes were too great.
Matt sighed. It was not Abbie's fault. If it was anyones fault, it was his. Inevitably,
he would pay for it. The Universe has an immutable law of action and reaction.
It was dark as Matt drove along Seventh Street. The night was warm, and the infrequent street lights were only beacons for night-flying insects. Matt turned a corner and pulled up in front of a big old house surrounded by an ornamental iron fence. The house was a two-story stucco, painted yellow -- or perhaps it had once been white -- and the fence sagged in places.
Most of the houses in Lawrence are old. The finest and the newest are in the west, on the ridge overlooking the Wakarusa Valley, but university professors cannot afford such sites or such houses.
Matt rang the bell. In a moment the door opened. Blinking out of the light was Professor Franklin, his faculty adviser.
