The Complete Short Fiction of Charles L. Grant, Volume IV: The Black Carousel

by Charles L. Grant

“Was once.”

  “I remember.”

  “Didn’t much like it.”

  The cigarette winked orange. “I remember that too.”

  Her hand covered his on the armrest. A gentle touch. A tender squeeze. Fingers more bone than flesh, though they couldn’t be any softer. “Still thinking?”

  He looked at her, had to look down, and nodded. “Like I said, Estelle.”

  Her face, barely visible despite of the glow from the street, was pale, more wrinkled than his, eyebrows still dark though her hair was loose and grey. Whenever she despaired and threatened a face-lift, he insisted they weren’t old wrinkles, they were character wrinkles. He was partly right. If she lived another thirty years she would never be ancient.

  “They called again yesterday, you know,” she said, squeezing again, easing off. “While you were at the hardware store, yelling at poor Mayard.”

  “Wasn’t yelling,” he insisted. “Damn fool sold me shoddy goods. Can’t do my work if he sells me shoddy goods.”

  “You whack at the cat with a yardstick, dear, and you hit a tree, it’s going to break. That isn’t shoddy, that’s dumb.”

  “Yeah, well . . .” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose loudly. “He gave me another one.”

  “Because he’s a good man.”

  A band of cigarette smoke floated over the railing, shredding slowly.

  A slight shift in the breeze and he caught the perpetual smell of sawdust that clung to his clothes, his skin, residue of his cabinetry, the work he had done, and done well, since leaving the office several decades ago. His avocation had become, overnight, his vocation. It also supplemented the government checks that weren’t large enough to feed a sparrow. He inhaled, and smiled to himself; his sawdust and Estelle’s perfumed soap, what a combination.

  He looked back to the street, listening to the footsteps taking their time arriving. “They called, huh?”

  She nodded, fussing with the cloth belt of her robe. “Right after Flory did. She wanted to know if we’d have dinner with her this weekend. I said it was all right.”

  He grunted.

  “Then,” she said, “it was them. Not two seconds later. I didn’t even have time to take a breath. I didn’t want to tell you. You’d only get mad.”

  “Damn right.”

  “But I can’t sleep when they get like that. Kayman, what if they take me?”

  “Worrying,” he said, turning his hand over, clasping hers, “is my job, remember? It was our deal. Yours is to keep me from attacking the ladies.”

  Her smile was one-sided. “Not much to worry about there anymore.”

  “Oh, you think so?”

  Her free hand brushed across his cheeks, under his chin, patted the side of his neck. “Wearing a hedgehog like that, they won’t come near you.”

  The footsteps paused.

  “Hedgehogs,” he said haughtily, “are mighty damn cute.”

  The footsteps moved on.

  “And damnit, how many times have I told you, they aren’t going to take you if you don’t want to go.”

  He couldn’t see who it was.

  “What are you frowning at?” she asked.

  “Trying to see who’s out there this time of morning. Crazy time for exercise. Be dead before they’re forty.”

  The hand slipped away.

  He closed his eyes briefly: oh hell.

  “Kayman.”

  “Okay, all right.”

  She always got like this — distant and close to whimpering — when she couldn’t see what he saw, hear what he heard. Her eyes were worse than his, but she wore her glasses only when she cooked or watched television; his eyes, touch wood, had never needed a day’s correction in his life. Never would. He was old, just a spit the other side of seventy-five; but he damn sure wasn’t feeble.

  “Kayman, please don’t do that again. It scares me.”

  “I forgot. I’m sorry.”

  “Promise me.”

  “Promise.”

  The cigarette drew an orange rectangle in the dark. Kayman reached down for his tea, drank it and wished to hell she’d forget about what all the doctors said and give him sugar once in a while, this tasted like colored water, then handed her the cup. “Think maybe you’d better get some rest.”

  She shook her head. Yawned. Laughed.

  “See?”

  “All right,” she said.

  He stood, helped her up, put an arm around her waist and walked her back to the door. Hugged her, kissed the top of her head. “Sleep in. You need it.”

  Her lips moved against his chest, a palm patted his hip, and she was gone.

  “ ’Night, Estelle,” Johnny called.

  Kayman watched her through the screen, watched her pause at the foot of the stairs before using the bannister to pull herself up. One step at a slow time. Head bent, right arm angled away from her side for balance. Stopping. Looking up. Climbing. Her new hip giving her trouble again. That, and other things.

  Goddamn, you die on me, Estelle, he thought to her back, suddenly angry, you’ll kill me.

  The cat leapt off the glider, the shriek of the chains spinning Kayman around, right hand in a fist, eyes narrow as he searched the porch, the yard he could see, for intruders, invaders, his breath quick and shallow, heat flushing through his cheeks until, with a relieved gasp, he sagged against the wall and wiped his face with his forearm.

  “Jumpy,” Johnny said. A dark-spotted hand patted down gleaming, stiff black hair. “Nerves like that will put you in your grave.”

  “Shut up.”

  “It’s my curse: my tongue.”

  “Shut up anyway.”

  “If you like.”

  Hands deep in his pockets, he left the porch and walked down the drive. At the sidewalk he made another check of the sky, and despite his hope there’d be showers later, for his grass and flowers, he really didn’t want them. The rain bothered him. It did too many things it wasn’t supposed to do; some days it made him believe he was losing his mind, one thought at a time, and since the beginning of summer it had been getting progressively worse. The concrete’s chill seeped up through his slippers and locked his knees. Down the street, toward Thorn Road, headlamps blared and an engine raced at the curb.

  A glance down, and he spotted his shadow and relaxed, took a deep cleansing breath, and decided to take a quick nap on the couch before breakfast.

  The sun was on its way.

  The clouds he spotted were thin and shapeless, more a haze than a cover.

  Back on the porch, he pulled the chairs away from the railing, scratched the cat behind its ears until it granted him a purring, took hold of one of the glider’s chains and squinted at the hooks buried in the ceiling. Oil, he decided; a little oil later will stop all that racket. Get the stepladder, listen to Estelle worry about his falling, squirt some oil up there, over here, it’ll be silent as a ghost.

  You too, he warned the screen door when it opened loudly; your days are numbered, you squeaky son of a bitch; and when it slammed shut behind him, its spring too taut, he kicked at it, stalked into the living room and stood in the middle of the floor, seeing none of the books on their shelves, none of the magazines in their cradle by her armchair, none of the framed photographs on the bare oak mantel. He saw his reflection instead. Head and neck on the wall over the sofa.

  He recognized the face well enough; he didn’t recognize the expression. Like a child whose favorite toy had just broken, and he didn’t understand why, and didn’t yet want to cry; like a young man whose girl had just walked out of the room, head up, hips swinging, elbows angrily tight to her sides, and he didn’t know why, and didn’t yet want to cry; like a man who watched at the site of a grave while a rumbling machine made of greasy cogs and strips of dark green canvas lowered a coffin into a hole, bearing flowers and brass, and he didn’t understand, and didn’t yet want to cry.

  No; not true.

  Not true at all.

  He dropped heavi
ly onto the center cushion, sat there a short while before letting himself slowly topple over. Legs up, slippers kicked off toe to heel, one hand under his cheek, the other dangling over.

  Maybe, he thought, half in a doze, if I sleep all day it will all go away.

  It wouldn’t, though.

  It hadn’t yet, even when he’d tried it.

  Walking hadn’t worked either, to the park and around it on the inside, to the Cock’s Crow and a few beers before walking home again, to the depot out on Cross Valley Road to watch the trains and listen to the passengers and gossip with the stationmaster before walking back.

  None of it had worked.

  None of it had stopped the world from twisting slightly out of shape.

  And none of it had explained why it had started.

  “It’s like,” he said to Flory Sholcroft just a tick past noon, “there’s this big pot, you see, and I’m sort of treading water in the middle or standing on something I can’t see, and then someone comes along with this damn ladle or spoon or stick or something and starts stirring the damn thing. Not a lot, you understand. It’s like when you give the soup a quick stir to keep it from burning, you see? Things start moving around, but I don’t, and . . .”

  He spread his hands away from his plate, then picked up a fork and jabbed at a piece of his steak. “Estelle thinks it’s her.” He chewed and swallowed. “I haven’t told her it’s me.”

  “Merry-go-round,” Flory said, long, red-tipped fingers darting over her plate to rearrange her hamburger, her french fries, the two leaves of lettuce on which had died a slice of tomato.

  “What?”

  “I think merry-go-round is a better image.” She grinned as she touched the corner of her mouth with a napkin. “You’re riding around in circles, see, and the rest of the world stands around watching. They’re there, then they’re gone, then they’re back but in a slightly different place, or with a different expression, or whatever.”

  He thought about it. “Maybe.”

  “All of which makes you think, merry-go-round or soup pot, that you’re going nuts, right?”

  He grimaced. “Hell of a way for a shrink to talk.”

  “Kayman, I’ve been talking to you like this for years, and you haven’t slugged me yet. You think just because you come for a little advice in my professional capacity now and then I’m going to treat you any differently?” Before he could lean away, she reached over and gripped his arm. “You and Estelle are like my second set of parents, you great idiot. You helped me when they died, I’m doing my best to help you now. Okay?”

  He supposed it was fair, but it didn’t feel right.

  This woman was half his age, handsome in a way most men found intimidating, strong in a way that frightened most of them off. Unlike him, she had never married. Yet she didn’t look anything like a spinster, her hair still blond and flowing, figure still heart-skipping full, a face he could put his hands around and pinch and mold and squeeze until he wept. Hell of a way, he thought, for a doctor to look.

  And a hell of a thing too for him to be here like this. Sneaking away from home on the pretense of a short stroll and calling Flory from the phone booth over in the corner by the kitchen entrance, telling her he’d like to talk again, it looked like rain today. Then calling Estelle and telling her he’d met some buddies and would eat at the Crow if she didn’t mind, maybe walk back to the Travelers after they were done. Did she want to meet him there? They could blow the budget and have some fun, ride the carousel, see the ghost house, maybe catch the animal show he’d heard about from some of the kids in the park. She could get a cab from Bartlett’s to bring her over, or maybe a neighbor to drive her. Or should he come back and pick her up?

  She had answered no to it all. It was going to pour any minute, she claimed, and if he had any of the sense left that God had given him, he’d come straight home after eating. But then he didn’t have any sense, did he, because he was too damn stubborn to think he’d ever catch pneumonia, much less a summer cold. So don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine, I’ve got plenty to do and none it needs you. He’d hung up much relieved; after living with her for twenty years come next September, he knew that being with Estelle in a mood like that would be like riding a witch’s broomstick with the witch right behind him, seething at the world.

  As he chewed his last piece of meat, he looked up at one of the wagon wheel chandeliers, and smiled to himself, remembering a time.

  “You made an ass of yourself then,” Johnny said, leaning over the back from the booth behind.

  “Did not.”

  “Did so,” a woman declared, poking her thin-hair head up beside Johnny. Red lips, red cheeks, bloodshot eyes, cigar mashed into a silver holder. “You took your goddamn clothes off.”

  God, yes, so he had.

  “Claimed you were Tarzan,” she continued, holder clamped between yellowed, horsey teeth. “You climbed up on a table, jumped from there and hung from one of the spokes.”

  “Hanging out, as it were,” Johnny said, chuckling.

  “Shut up,” she said.

  “Hey, hey, Brenda, let’s not forget a lady’s manners.”

  She jabbed him hard with a stiff finger, and he yelped, disappeared below the back, and Kayman could hear him muttering about medical expenses and lawsuits.

  “You ought to leave him alone,” Kayman warned her gently,

  “What the hell for?”

  “Because I’ll leave you!” Johnny shouted.

  Brenda winked. “No, he won’t. He can’t. He’s in love.”

  “Hell I am!”

  “Mind your own business, you fruit.”

  His head only to his eyes rose over the booth, eyebrows waggling. “I was banana enough for you at one time, sweetie pie.”

  Kayman laughed.

  Brenda snapped around and vanished, smoke billowing behind to measure the strength of the insult, and the embarrassment of the truth.

  Still chuckling, and remembering, he emptied his glass of milk and said to Flory, “They called again yesterday. I wasn’t there, but they called.”

  “Who?”

  “Her kids. I told you about them last time.”

  Flory pushed her plate to one side, nibbled on a fry. “They still don’t want you two living together.”

  He shook his head.

  “The home threat again?”

  She knew about the children — Jesus, children! they were damn near fifty, both of them — and their thus-far futile attempts over the past five years to put their mother into a nursing home, down where they lived in suburban Atlanta, To protect her, they said; to expose her to a better, healthier climate, they said; to watch over her in her declining years, they had the goddamn nerve to say last Christmas when they called and refused to talk to him when he answered. And until now, Estelle had been strong enough, mother enough, to keep them in their place, slap them down, turn them around and put a sting to their nosy butts.

  Then the rain began to bring things to the house.

  She became afraid for her mind.

  Flory touched his hand.

  He didn’t look while she spoke, watching instead the jukebox over behind the piano; a man stood there, bending over, reading the titles, a quarter tapping the glass face while he decided. Kayman knew him. Saw him several times up at the library, once in a while at the Brass Ring. Big fella. Skinny as hell. Keeps trying to grow a beard, but it only makes him look like a rug got at by termites not very choosy about their meals. Played darts once; the guy had lost badly.

  Flory told him it wasn’t right that he should let Estelle believe she was the one who missed things, because the things she thought she missed weren’t really there. He knew that. Fear of what she might think was only being cruel, not to mention hugely selfish.

  What was the bastard’s name, he wondered, scowling in concentration. Hal? Jerry? He would use the alphabet trick — go through all the letters, the name would come when he reached the right one. Al? Artie? Benny?

/>   “Kayman, what you’re doing is wrong. You know it’s wrong, and you’ll have to stop it.”

  A fist rested on the table, knuckles bleeding white.

  This was crazy. How the hell could he forget the name of a guy he saw only yesterday, for Christ’s sake? Carl? Danny? Ed?

  The man made his selection, turned around, and as he walked back to his table, saw Kayman and waved.

  Kayman returned the wave with a nod.

  Johnny and Brenda began to dance by the bar at the back of the room.

  Jesus Christ, what the hell was his name?

  Something bounced off his chest.

  He looked down at his plate and saw a french fry skid across and off it. The fist mashed it. The plate bounced. His empty glass toppled over, and she caught it before it rolled off the table onto the floor.

  When he glared, he could see how hard she tried to stay unmoved.

  “If,” he said, leaning over, voice low and deep, “she thinks I’m crazy, she’ll leave me.”

  “No.”

  “If,” he said, feeling the plate’s edge press into his stomach, “she thinks I’m crazy, she’ll leave me.”

  “She won’t, Kayman, I promise. You just say the word, and I’ll come over and help you. It won’t be easy, but for Estelle’s sake, you can’t keep this up.”

  “They do not,” he said, slapping the plate off the table and ignoring the crash, “leave me.”

  Her lips quivered in indignation, stopped, and she picked up her purse. “Well I am, Kayman. Right now.” She slid out of the booth, purse stiff against her waist. “When you’ve calmed down, give me a call.”

  She left ahead of the gunshots of her heels.

  He stared at the back of the seat opposite him, paying no attention to the busboy sweeping up the pieces, not listening to the song the man had selected, not blinking when a woman slid into the booth and folded her hands on the table.

  She was thin, not pretty and not plain, ordinary and wearing an ordinary light summer dress with puffed sleeves and tiny blue flowers somewhat faded from constant washing. Short brown hair that had always caught the sun in hints of red. Chestnut, she claimed; he didn’t call it anything but brown. A rounded chin age promised to point. Dark hazel eyes that didn’t look away when he leaned back and sighed loudly and used his left hand to force open the fist. She didn’t blink. Her expression was blank, as if she were looking right through him, thinking about something else, something unimportant, something automatic, like shopping or making love.