He climbed into the car, shaking his head, and pointed the way up a narrow byroad off the highway, at the end of which a white clapboard farmhouse perched on the hilltop.
After breakfast next morning they piled into the coupe again and headed back down the highway. The fresh green of the vegetation looked innocent and peaceful. A clear blue sky brightened as the sun rose, cloudless and serene after the rain.
"Twister!” the sheriff snorted, grinning in good-natured derision at Clayton and his wife as they rolled along. "Somebody sure is a practical joker in this town of yours, selling you fake gas and what-all!” Clayton said nothing, but his eyes met those of his wife curiously. Half the night they had lain awake, puzzling about the town that was not on any road map and the wind storm that had not materialized.
WATCHING the milometer, Clayton looked ahead, and suddenly pointed in triumph.
"There! Here’s our town! I knew we couldn’t have imagined-------” He broke off, staring, a little pulse beginning to throb at his temple.
"Good Lord!” he breathed. "I can’t believe it!”
For the rows of buildings along the highway as he slowed down could hardly be called buildings at all. Crumbling shells of moss-covered brick loomed against the sky, desolate and inhabited only by nesting birds. The shattered hulks of old houses, sometimes no more than one rotting wall or a vine-hidden chimney, reared from foundations overgrown with grass and weeds.
In front of one swung a battered sign Clayton remembered. GUESTS, it read— but the house beyond had no top story. It was torn off as if by the hand of an angry giant. No one could have lived inside—no one but kindred of the spider and the bat. There was no sign of an old woman with a white round face, scraggly gray hair and terror-dilated eyes. Dust lay undisturbed on the rotting porch, save where a man’s footprints had mounted the steps and come down again.
"That’s"—Clayton’s voice was strangled, his face blank with unbelief—"that’s where I—it can’t be!”
His dazed eyes swept tire one-street town where not a house, not a building stood which was not smashed beyond reasonable repair. The giant’s-hand had swept across the entire village, battering, smashing, destroying as if in one brutal gesture.
Parts of other buildings lay in front yards. One small outhouse hung half in, half out of a gaping hole in the wall of a crumbling Colonial mansion. A great oak, jerked out of the earth like a blade of grass, lay through the center of a crushed bungalow.
The sheriff’s guffaw startled Clayton from his trance.
"Oh! This is your town, eh? Why, it’s been deserted for years, ever since the twister in ’22.”
"Twister?” Clayton swallowed with a dry mouth, and felt his wife’s cold hand slide shakily into his own. "Did—did
you say-----?”
"Sure!” The deputy chortled. "But it wasn’t last night, young feller—it was seventeen year ago! Worst we ever had,
I recollect. Wiped out near about everybody in the town here. The rest moved away, they couldn’t afford to rebuild, and there wasn’t much to hold ’em here, anyhow. Why, I just never thought about this place when y’all spoke about stopping at a town nearer than Evansboro! Nobody stops here, not even hobos. Some dang-fool story about it being haunted...
Myra Clayton edged closer to her husband in the car seat, wide-eyed and silent. The dog in her lap whined softly.
"It’s natural folks’d cook up some such tale,” the sheriff was rambling on cheerfully. "When the twister struck here, nobody had received any storm warnin’, because the weather bureau didn’t dream it’d be such a bad one. Freak wind in July, it was. Nobody was prepared for it, so of course hundreds was killed. Some of the unidentified bodies was buried on the spot. Too tore-up to ship... July the 12, 1922, that was,” he drawled, then grunted. "Say, that was exactly seventeen years ago yestiddy! Funny coincidence...”
But Bob Clayton was not listening. He had turned the coupé and was cruising back down the highway to where a white stucco filling-station squatted forlornly between the wreckage of two stores. Slowly he braked the car and climbed out. Slowly, not daring to look at his wife, he walked up the drive-in and paused beside a rusty gas pump—empty and hoseless by daylight. He knew, somehow, what he would find there. Bending down, he picked it up with an unsteady hand...
A dollar bill. The dollar bill he had laid in the palm of a pale youth with a deathless terror in his hollow eyes: terror beyond the peace of the grave, terror that had let neither him, nor hundreds of others in that lost town, rest since a yellowish cloud had roared down upon them from the sky almost a score of years before. Waiting, all of them, in a terrible bondage of dread, for the twister to strike again.
A Handful of Silver
It was Christmas Eve and snowing hard when I dropped into Joe’s Bar and Grill after deadline time and found a stool at the counter. Joe, bald and smiling his gold-toothed smile, tipped me a nod.
“Evening, Mary. The usual glass of port?”
“No, make it a hot rum punch tonight, Joe. Whoo, boy, what weather!”
I grinned back at him, shivering and beating my numb hands together. My packages, in a leaning tower on the floor beside me, tilted suddenly and collapsed against the leg of the customer on the next stool. “Sorry,” I said.
I righted them with an apologetic smile at the man hunched beside me—shabby, bearded, gaunt, and wracked by a cough. He bent to retrieve one package that had bounced from my grasp, and I caught a glimpse of piercing black eyes deep-sunk in shadowed sockets. The mouth half-hidden in the black beard was both severe and sensual. His narrow hooked nose caught my attention, as well as his marked accent. Italian? Lebanese? I could not place it.
But something about the slumped shoulders, the toneless despair in the stranger’s voice, prompted me to add, impulsively, “Merry Christmas!”
He turned toward me with startling abruptness, recoiling as though I had struck him. Such misery burned from those dark eyes, I caught my breath audibly, as one might at sight of an open wound. He did not reply to my pleasantry, but merely stared for a moment, then turned back to his half-empty glass. Finishing his drink with a gulp, he moved to a nearby, recently vacated booth, with a manner less of rebuff than of humility.
He sat down wearily, gestured for another drink, and presently pulled out a small, dirty leather pouch with a draw-string. Opening it, he dumped its contents—a handful of small silver coins—on the tabletop and began to count them. In the sudden silence as the jukebox ended its chant of “Silver Bells,” I overheard him mumble.
Hebraic, I noted idly. Some miserly old pawn-shop proprietor counting out his day’s receipts. Incuriously, I glanced at the hoard, and my interest quickened.
I had not been a numismatist for years without learning to recognize a rare coin when I saw one. And these, all sixteen or seventeen of them, were both rare and extremely old. They were all alike. Their shape was roughly oval, their polished silver marred either by a dark reddish-brown stain or some sort of alloy in the metal. Peering at them more intently, I made out the likeness of a chalice on one; on another, the reverse side, that of a flowering lily. They were shekels, struck perhaps in the reign of Herod.
Burning eyes glanced up from the little pile and caught my stare. I looked away, embarrassed. Then, still with a friendly impulse born of the Christmas season, I turned to him again.
“You a coin collector?” I asked. “Nice hobby. I have a pretty fair collection myself—mostly half-dimes and Liberty nickels. If you'd like to see it sometime—I mean,” I nodded at Joe, watching us laconically, as he polished a shot glass. “You a regular customer? I drop in every evening. Live around here?”
“No. No, I... travel,” the bearded man murmured rather nervously. With one skeletal hand he raked the coins back into their pouch without offering to show them.
But one rolled off the tabletop and came to rest at my feet. I picked it up and handed it back. As our fingers touched, I noticed that the stranger’s hand was colder than min
e—a hard, unyielding cold, like steel, or the • hand of a corpse. Involuntarily I drew back—and saw, from the expression in those hollow dark eyes, that the stranger had not missed my reaction. The thin, unnaturally red lips curled slightly in a tired smile, almost as though he had expected my revulsion.
Then his eyes softened. They traveled from my ringless left hand to my obviously pregnant waistline. Gently, without embarrassment, he murmured, “You're not in need, are you?—in trouble?”
“Me?” A smile touched my lips.
Joe, less tactful, burst out laughing. “Mary, an unwed mother? That’s a hot one!” He guffawed. “Wait’ll I tell Johnny!”
“Joe, knock it off!” I smiled at the bearded man. “No, I’m just another working wife. Newspaper gal. Working as long as I dare, that is—to get the car and the TV set paid for, before the launching! My husband’s a sports writer on the same paper. We’ve been married only a year. My rings,” I added, “are in hock so we -could buy an antique crib!” I turned to Joe. “Has my lord and master been in here tonight? And did you tell him to pick up that turkey we won in the raffle?”
Joe nodded. “Sure thing, Mary. He’s got it and gone home. Prob’ly has it in the oven by now if he—Hey Bub” He broke off, smile vanishing. “You forgot to pay for that last drink!”
The bearded man had started for the snowy street, head down once more, shoulders slumped in a posture of dull defeat. Seen from the rear, his neck revealed an odd-looking red scar. Joe, noticing it also, punched me.
“Looka that.’ he whispered. “Looks like our pal was guest-of-honor at a lynchin’ party!”
“Yeah,” I gasped. “Rope-bum?”
“Sorry. I forgot.” The man turned back to clink a fifty-cent piece on the counter. Then, with a wry smile at me—friendly, if it had not been so bitterly ironic—he started for the street door again.
It burst open before he could reach for the knob, and a “blind” beggar blew in with a gust of snowy wind. His pencils and tin cup were clutched in an expensively gloved hand, and the eyes faintly visible behind the dark glasses sized up the sentimental atmosphere of the place with an expert glance.
“Help the blind! Help the blind!” he intoned mechanically.
The bearded man halted. With a peculiar, hurried eagerness he pulled out the leather pouch and dropped several of those rare, certainly valuable oval coins into the beggar’s cup with a musical clink of metal on metal. A burning look of hope flared in the black eyes—to die almost at once as the beggar fished out the coins, felt them, bit one, and then threw them contemptuously to the floor.
“Wise guy, huh?” he whined. “Try’n a palm off some worthless foreign money on a poor, handicapped fella. You got no shame at all, Mister?”
Light ebbed from the bearded man’s eyes. With infinite weariness he stooped to retrieve his scorned donation. One coin lay half under a booth table, winking in the red and green Christmas lights like an evil eye. Perhaps it was only a trick of the light, but the dark stain seemed to have spread fractionally across its shiny surface. He returned them all to the pouch before getting heavily to his feet and heading again for the door.
Pity surged up in me for what had obviously been a fumbling attempt to do a kindness, first to me, then to the ungrateful beggar.
“Hey, Mister—wait a minute!” I called after him. Then, as he looked over his shoulder, startled, I added, “I wonder if you’d sell me one of those coins. If I’m not mistaken, they’re museum pieces—first-century shekels? Probably struck in Jerusalem, maybe two thousand years ago or earlier?”
The piercing eyes met mine with a force like a physical shock. Some deep gnawing hunger in their depths made me step back involuntarily, almost fearful of their burning eagerness. I regretted my impulse, but went on: “My husband and I are both coin collectors. If it isn’t too expensive, could I buy one for him? Sort of an extra gift, to tie on to our Christmas tree... T
At mention of the season, the gaunt stranger winced visibly. Such a look of pain contorted his mouth and heavy eyebrows that I was taken aback. A faint groan issued from him, so very faint that it was just audible. The twisting lips compressed themselves in a tight line.
Eyes closed, the stranger seemed to fight for self-control. When he spoke, though, his voice was steady, but breathless with a peculiar tone of eagerness.
“These coins are not to be sold. But I will give you one! Gladly. Please! Take it. The... the stain will go away...
With desperate haste, he clawed out the leather pouch and extracted one of the silver pieces. He held it out to me with a trembling hand.
“Sorry, no.” I laughed. “Give my husband an expensive antique that a strange man gave to me? You don’t know my Johnny!” Then, as the hand proffering the coin sagged wearily: “But it would be a favor if you’d let me buy it. I know what a coin shop or museum would charge for such a rare piece. Ten dollars?” I fumbled with the catch of my handbag. “I know it’s worth much more, but that’s all I can afford.”
The eager look had vanished from the black eyes. He shook his head dully. “You don’t understand. These coins must be spent, used, given as a kindness, accepted with gratitude and without suspicion. A kindness without reward...”
“I see.” With a shrug I turned back to my hot rum punch.
Joe and I exchanged grimaces. Was the fellow some sort of cultist or religious crank? The big city is full of such, though their hidden motive is usually financial gain. I waited cynically for the stranger to boost his price. Instead, with an audible sigh, he moved again toward the street door.
A small boy of perhaps nine entered, brushing snow from a jacket too thin for the temperature outside. His face was red with cold, but he grinned at Joe as he thrust a wadded bill across the counter, revealing bruises like fingermarks on his thin wrist.
“Bourbon?” grunted Joe, like one repeating an old routine.
The boy nodded. Joe thrust the pint into a paper sack, rang up the sale, and went back to polishing glasses. The boy was gazing admiringly at the blinking Christmas lights and the small tree repeated in the bar mirror.
“Hey, it looks all right in here! Real neat'”
Joe smiled wryly. “You gonna get that camera for Christmas this year, Danny?—The one you been wantin’, in the hockshop window?”
“Aw, I dunno.” The boy laughed, shrugging cheerfully. “You know my ole man. ’Specially ’round Christmas and New Year’s. Most of the time, though, he’s okay,” he added loyally. “Maybe he jist gets to missin’ Mom.”
“Sure.” Joe nodded.
“He might even remember about the camera, though. He just might.”
The boy started out, pulling up his jacket collar before facing the blizzard building up outside. Snow banked against the plate-glass window, making a dark mirror for the room. It reflected the bearded man’s face as he hesitated at the door. Hope had flared once more in his haunted eyes.
“Boy?” He scrabbled hastily in the leather pouch and brought out a few of the oval coins. “Would you like a little money for yourself? Or for a present for your father?”
The urchin halted, eyeing the silver warily. “For doin’ what?” he demanded, suspicious- of the bearded man’s over-eager expression. “Lissen—I ain’t carrying no package for no pusher Uh-w/i, Mister. I ain’t about to spend Christmas in no juv court”
He brushed past the old man, almost rudely, and darted out into the snowy street, hugging his father’s purchase. Again a look of bitter grief welled up in the old man’s black eyes.
He leaned wearily against the door; a tear glistened in his dark beard. Then he started back as someone outside heaved at the portal blocked by his weight. It was flung angrily open, and a boozy blonde of middle age flounced in out of the cold.
“What’s-a big idea? A gentelman would open the door for a lady.” She glared at the bearded man, then changed her expression to one of kittenish charm as she turned to Joe. “Merry Christmas, you old whiskey-cutter! I just couldn’t pa
ss by without droppin’ in.” Joe eyed her without cordiality. “No more hustlin’ in here, Mae! I warned you last time. Out.“ He jerked his thumb at the door through which she had entered. “You wanna get me closed down?’
“Well, I never been so insulted!” The blonde drew herself up, then winked. “All I want is a little drink. On the house, huh? One little teensy one? It’s Christmas! Look, I brought you a present!” With a flourish, she laid a small hand-towel on the counter; it was baldly labeled “Central Hotel.”
“Awright,” Joe said. “One drink. Make it fast!” “You’re all heart, Joey boy. Here’s mud in your eye.” The blonde backed toward the exit. The bearded man, with a gesture that held no mockery, opened the door for her. But as she shivered in the blast of wind from the street, his eyes shone once more with hope. Clawing out the pouch, he took out two coins and offered them.
“May I buy you a bottle? Or dinner, if you’re hungry?” His voice shook like the bony hand holding out the silver.
Something about his blazing eyes repelled the blonde. Her kittenish smile vanished. She glared from the silver to the cavernous eyes. Abruptly she drew back, shaking her head.
“You got TB or something? Lissen—you can’t buy no time with me—not for no lousy beer and maybe a hamburger. Let me outta here! I got a big date for later.” Chin up, she stalked out into the snowy night.
The bearded man, his hand still held out, slumped against the closing door. In the stillness, broken only by subdued traffic sounds and the monotonous jingle of a street-Santa’s bell, I thought I heard him sob aloud. The old man stared at the oval coins on his palm with utter despair in his eyes—they were almost solid brown now, with little of the silver gleaming. His skeletal fingers closed over them, and his head fell back against the door, revealing again that raw, red scar circling his neck. His lips writhed; I could hear the words now “...Eloi, lama sabachthani...”
Half in Shadow Page 22
