Stronghold

by Stanley Ellin

  But these are good troops, none better. The immovable objects. And J. Flood is the irresistible force. Up to now, the question has always been what happens when the irresistible force bangs into the immovable object. No one has considered the interesting possibilities if they sign up for the same project.

  Methodical.

  Four standing lamps are brought up from the library, lashed to the corners of the sun deck. Brass reflectors, the reading lights replaced by high-powered two-hundred-watt bulbs, they will really light up the perimeter. What looks like a mile of extension wiring pulled out of sockets in the bedrooms, plugged into the attic outlet. Switched on, everything works.

  Harvey cleans out the refrigerator, brings up a carton of food and bottled water. There isn’t too much food left. The Shanklins, super-locusts, have been into it all day. But there is, Harvey reports, some odds and ends in the pantry. Good. No danger of starvation for the locusts.

  Now Deborah up from the cellar. Scared but in fair control. She and Emily have a touching reunion. I watch the troops as they watch Deborah comfort mamma, push her down into her chair again, bend over her with that butt waving at them in those tight jeans. Food, drink, and that beautiful butt—what more could any troops under siege ask for?

  Finally, the rest of the weapons and ammo brought up. Lester brings them to me at the foot of the ladder in the attic, I pass them through the hatch to Harvey. His last trip up, Lester also brings some oversized pots from the kitchen.

  “What the hell are these for?” I ask. I take one to hand up to Harvey, but Lester pulls it away from me and sets it down on the attic floor.

  He says, “Man, things get moving up there and you have to take a piss, you just going to wave it in front of that old lady?”

  Wave it in front of Deborah? Gladly. But in front of mamma?

  A real gentleman, this pile of muscle.

  An authentic mamma freak.

  Cute.

  But not so cute when the seven o’clock news comes on. He—our sharpshooter—is on duty at the front railing with the binoculars and an M-14, I’m at the back railing, when Harvey on the mattress brings up the volume on the transistor, and we wait on the word from Out There. Lester comes over and squats beside Harvey. A lot of words come out of the transistor, but not the right ones. When it’s over they both turn and look at me. Harvey hasn’t been talking to me, and he isn’t opening up now. He just gives me an accusing shake of the head. Grim.

  Lester isn’t settling for that. “They don’t know yet,” he says to me. He sounds mean and he looks mean, our mamma freak. “Nobody out there knows yet.”

  “They know,” I tell him. “Maybe you won’t get it over the transistor, but don’t you worry your curly head about that, boy. You’ll be getting it over a great big bullhorn any time now, loud and clear.”

  Score three million for Hayworth.

  The four million is put together only on Mondays, and the next Monday is a long way off. Too long.

  Will you settle for the one million on hand, Mr. Flood?

  Yes.

  No.

  One million plus one hundred thousand. One million for J. Flood, one hundred thousand for the St. Hilary reception committee. Worthington and Moore. If they don’t like it, too fucking bad. They will have the gun on me, but I will have the gun on the ladies. Or lady. And a pocketful of grenades. Take what you’re offered, gents, and take the ladies. Now Flood is in the cabin. What’s left? Pilot, co-pilot, flight engineer, and J. Flood. And a grenade ready. Where to, sir? Mideast. Burnooseville. Sheik country.

  The last of this July Group. Sign on a couple of eager-beaver Arab shitheads, the beginning of the next.

  I am facing due west, the slope down to Highway 9, the sun just over the tops of the trees blinding me. Harvey is stretched out on the mattress, soothed by the Memphis country-and-western coming over the Adirondack network. I push a shoe into his ribs, shove the Uzi into his hands. “Take over for a minute. I have to go down and get my shades.”

  The room where Coco and I waited out the night. Coco, the old blacksnake, tried to get the troops to mutiny, but he couldn’t quite make it. You win some, Hubert, you lose all the rest. And look who’s wearing your gun in his belt.

  The shades are on the dresser. Flood’s reflection is in the mirror. The winner.

  Down the hall the open door to Janet’s room, the drug department. Shuttered dark. I go in, switch on the light. The magic lacquered box. It’s been a hard day, it could be an even harder night. I unlock the box, pop two meths. Underdosed. Pop another pair.

  Her bed, no mattress on it now. The same bed as ten years ago. Now on top of her, now under her, doing my panicky futile best. She handling the little troublemaker, angrily rubbing it. Jesus, kid, what’s the matter with you?

  The mistake now. As soon as I smelled daddy’s double-cross, a gang-bang. That’s the treatment, baby. Harvey and Lester holding those skinny legs apart while J. Flood climbs aboard for the first ride. Different from ten years ago, isn’t it, baby?

  Or is it?

  It would have to be. No question about it. Right now I’m ready, just getting the smell of her in the room.

  But she’s not here, Jimmy boy, only the smell.

  All right, I could have done the counting, the other three could have done the work. Until Daddy, daddy, help me!

  And where is daddy?

  Shipping those bagfuls of money to New York, baby. Three million saved is three million earned.

  Tricky daddy, keeping Duffy under control this long, knocking out that phone there.

  Probably had the service stopped. If he cut the line, he’d knock out every phone along the ridge, and the company would have to get on it sooner or later.

  Did it?

  The phone is on the night table. I walk over to it, pick it up.

  And slam it down again.

  A yell from above. “Yo, Jimmy!”

  One yell is worth a thousand words.

  Up the stairs to the attic, jet-propelled.

  Duffy.

  Ah, Lester baby, save him for me. Maybe I don’t have your touch with the rifle, but give me that first shot at him anyhow, right through the bullhorn. No. Lower. Right through the belly so he can feel it and know it.

  Up the ladder to the sun deck. Grab up an M-14 and then—

  And then?

  They are all lined up at the front railing, troops dead center, hostages off to the side, everything—instructions, orders, warnings—everything gone out of those Dade County Shanklin heads. Perfect targets. Passengers at the rail of the good ship Lollipop, Harvey working the binoculars, watching the flyingfish.

  “Down!” I shout. “Get down, goddam it!”

  “Fuck that,” Harvey says. “Come on over here.”

  Not General Duffy on the march?

  Then it has to be Hayworth.

  I get to the railing, and Harvey shoves the glasses into my hand. He points. “Up the road there. What the hell is that all about?”

  I focus the glasses. Hayworth. Easy to make out even without the glasses. And with him, others. Four others drag-assing along the road. Anna Marcy, the queen bee, all piss and vinegar. Elizabeth Marcy, out-of-this-world daffy. A bald, big-beaked, skinny little man—Uri Shapiro, their Jewboy Quaker. And that last one with the baseball cap shading his face. Baseball cap. Same cap as ten years ago. Quincy. Quimby. Ken Quimby. The one with the big-mouth, big-ass wife.

  The righteousness committee.

  Scammons Landing Monthly Meeting.

  I don’t believe it. I am looking at it and I don’t believe it.

  Hayworth stops. They all stop. Hayworth and Anna Marcy are doing some hard talking. Suddenly Anna cuts loose from them, starts up the road by herself. Jesus, the cranky old bitch must date back to the French and Indian War. Throw a slug into her now, she’d just go up in a cloud of dust. Now the others are tagging after her.

  Emily says to Harvey, “I told you who they are.” She moves over to me and pulls at my arm.
“Jimmy, you know them. Tell him who they are. You mustn’t hurt them.”

  I shove her away. I say to Harvey, “You can see it’s Hayworth. What’s the difference if he’s carting some freaks along with him? The thing is that we’re back in business.”

  “How? I don’t see them carrying any bags of money. You show me those big bags of money, and then I’ll say we’re back in business.”

  “Man,” Lester bleats, “all we are is right back where we started.”

  One ape echoing the other ape. Brother apes. Cool it, Jimmy boy. What can you expect when you deal with animals? But I don’t like the feeling in me. Too cool. Icy cold. A chill in the gut, a roaring in the ears, the hands shaking. The Button. Keep away from The Button, Flood, because there are two Shanklins against one of you. And from the look of them, they are ready for the showdown.

  Easy, baby.

  I say to them, “Use your brains. We’ve got Hayworth back, and we’ve got four more hostages to work him over with. All we have to do now—”

  “You said there was cops out there,” Lester cuts in. “Man, you think if that was so, they’d let anybody like that come walking down the road?”

  “And what did he bring them here for?” Harvey demands. “What the hell is he up to?”

  Easy, baby. Easy does it.

  I say, “How do I know? Maybe a prayer meeting. That’s their business, prayer meetings. And Hayworth conned them into this because he wants to keep stalling. But the stalling is over now. The man is going to see close up what happens when you push it too far in. He is going to smarten up real fast.”

  Now Emily is all over Harvey, pulling at him. “Please, please, don’t listen to him. They can’t hurt you. Nobody wants to hurt you. You must know that by now. All they want you to do is go away.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Harvey says. She is working her way up to a crying fit, and instead of bringing her out of it with a hand across the face, he is trying to untangle himself from her without doing necessary damage. The silly redneck son of a bitch actually looks embarrassed about it. “Yeah, yeah. It’s all right, lady.”

  The parade is up to the driveway now. Next thing they’ll be on the porch ringing the doorbell. Subscribe to Friends Journal, sir? Contribute to the Friends Service Committee? Share a prayer for a deserving fat cat?

  Who’s in charge here anyhow, Flood?

  Since when do the birds hypnotize the snakes?

  Move.

  I say, “I’m going out to settle with Hayworth. You keep an eye on those woods and cover me from here.”

  “Cover you?” Lester says. “From what? You still making out like there’s cops out there?”

  “Don’t you bet my life against it, Lester baby. Just watch those woods while the talking goes on. You can count your money meanwhile. Four million dollars and only three of us customers.”

  Harvey smells something wrong. A sharp nose, Harvey. “Why go out there?” he says. “Why not bring them all in here?”

  How to tell him that what I have to do out there I might not be able to do up here with a couple of Shanklins so close. One Shanklin especially. Lester, our musclebound mamma freak.

  I don’t tell. I say, “I don’t want them in here. When I’m done with them they’ll be heading right for town to spread the word. That’s the name of the game right now.”

  Harvey shakes his head. “Man—” but before he can get any more out, I say, “You’re in such a goddam sweat about not getting this over the radio. Can you think of a better way of doing it?”

  No answer.

  “All right,” I say. “The one thing you don’t do if there’s any action is waste Hayworth. No mistakes. Remember, he’s the meal ticket.”

  No argument.

  They are coming up the driveway now.

  Bring on the clowns.

  Marcus Hayworth

  Out of shadowy woods, into a dazzle of sunlight.

  The house.

  All shuttered, the windows like blind eyes.

  Up there, the widow’s walk.

  Hard to see against the glare. I shade my eyes. A bulky figure at the railing. Then another. And there, off to the side, two slighter ones. The women. Alive.

  So there had been no firing squad. I am dizzy with relief. “Up there!” I say, pointing. “Emily and Deborah!” and Kenneth says, “Yes, I can make them out,” so I know it is no mirage.

  Dizzy with relief while everything in me is a jelly of fear. If I were alone on this mission, it would take every drop of courage in me to carry it out. I am not brave. I conceal this from the world, but it is the truth. When I see danger ahead I cannot stride toward it but must drive myself toward it. Now, fear for these people beside me is demanding too much courage from me.

  There is another figure at the railing now. A smaller one than the pair bulking beside it. Flood. Just the sight of him pulls me up short. If it were only Digby. But Digby is not showing himself yet.

  I stand staring at the remote silhouette of Flood, my eyes watering in the sunset glare, but what I am seeing is Ethel’s face when Kenneth said to her, “I’m going too. But you stay here. Anna’s right. Somebody has to tend that phone.”

  She knew what he meant: If anything happens to me, somebody has to tend the kids.

  Her face.

  No. I can make the rest of the distance by myself, but not in this company. They have come far enough. Incredible that they should have come this far. But here is the end of the line for them.

  I tell this to them, and they hear me out. Then Anna says, “Thee knows the sense of the meeting, Marcus. Are we to have meetings on this every step of the way?”

  “They can see you from there, Anna. That’s all that’s needed.”

  “If they can see us, they must know we come in peace. So they will not harm us.”

  We come in peace.

  Dear God, we have been coming in peace for more than three hundred years now, and where are we?

  Ours not to complete the task. Neither may we lay it down.

  She believes that, this tight-lipped, shriveled old woman. She and Elizabeth have lived their lives by it, but always apart from the world, shielded by it. What do they know of the real world today and its savagery? Have they seen Sarah Frisch on her bed, beaten, dazed, tied hand and foot? Have they already forgotten her murder?

  Angrily I remind them of it, but Anna only shakes her head. “Marcus, thee knows I am not here to see Emily and Deborah from the road. I am here to share with them.”

  The last Hayworth to use the plain talk, the old talk, was my grandfather. Awesome to a child when the old man was in one of his rare bad tempers. And now—am I possessed by him or am I only trying to communicate with Anna in her own kind of language?—I find myself saying in scathing tones, “Thee is a fool, Anna Marcy. My wife and daughter do not want anyone locked up with them to share their troubles. They want James Flood to be given his money and sent away. And thee stands in the way of that.”

  She squints at me, studying my face as if I am someone she might know but can’t quite recognize. Then she reaches out a foot and marks a line close to my feet in the dirt of the road. “What is it, Marcus?” she asks. “Does your faith extend only this far and no further?”

  “Anna—” I start to say, but she wheels around, and on her own she is moving down the road toward the house. Elizabeth instantly trots after her. Kenneth and Uri follow, Uri helplessly calling, “Anna!” but she is as deaf to him as she has chosen to be to me.

  Faith plunging into the fire.

  I cannot call them back, I cannot drag them back, there is nothing to do but move quickly and get in front of them.

  Lead them into the fire.

  From the head of the driveway, I can clearly make out everyone on the widow’s walk. All of them are fixed on us as we approach, Emily and Deborah gripping the railing, the man called Harve with binoculars to his eyes, the other one—Les—standing with a gun to his shoulder, the gun aiming in our direction.

  But Flood
is no longer there. He could be on his way down to the door. Still in charge. Not Digby, the more rational one, as I have been desperately hoping. Still Flood.

  The door is suddenly pulled open. Someone shadowy stands inside, back to the door. “Hold it.”

  Flood.

  I stop. All of us stand as we are. I could not stop Anna Marcy, but James Flood can.

  He sidles out on the porch, back still pressed to the open door, the pistol in his hand menacing us. He scans the distance over our heads. With all the evidence offered him, does he really believe that there’s anyone out there who might be a danger to him?

  Yes. I think he’s mad enough to believe it.

  He looks it. Filthied from head to foot, shirt torn to shreds, hair and beard unkempt. And his expression as he stands there regarding us. The spider regarding all these luscious flies drawn to his web. Turning a smile on and off. No, a grimace. On and off like a nervous tic, the clenched teeth suddenly showing, then an instant later not showing, the face becoming rigid.

  I say, “Flood, you can see for yourself—”

  “Shut up!”

  Drunk? The words come out slurred, as if he has trouble mouthing them. When he walks down the steps his legs do not seem all that steady. He approaches to within a few feet of us and makes a sweeping gesture back and forth with the gun. “Line up, motherfuckers.”

  The same thick voice. That gun in our faces, his finger on the trigger. We are standing in a cluster. I move back a step so that I am side by side with Anna and Elizabeth. Uri and Kenneth move up so that we make a ragged line. Game-playing. The obscenity and the threatening gun are his idea of game-playing. Sooner or later he’ll be ready to talk business. Meanwhile, we must bear with the game patiently.