All appearance of symmetry, harmony, and balance that had made the tree a classic had been destroyed. Rusty looked about to see if he had been observed; deciding that it was safe, he picked up the broken branch and tossed it over the edge of the deck, where it would not be seen. An anguished cry rose in Spencer’s throat and it took all his restraint to keep from rushing down and throttling the man right then and there. But Spencer bided his time, for he had already suspected that this day might come and he had settled on a far more satisfactory revenge.
Most of Spencer’s life had been fairly uneventful. He grew up in the apple-growing region of Nelson County, Virginia. When he met and fell in love with a girl from Pasadena, California, he married her, and when her father died he inherited a small family drugstore. He kept regular hours, rarely took a vacation, voted the straight Republican ticket, went to church on Sunday, and was religiously faithful to his wife. He was the least likely person to commit murder, but he hit upon an even more imaginative vengeance.
His life had taken a dramatic turn after he illegally provided some medicine to one of his customers, an elderly Japanese American gentleman, whose prescription had run out and who was facing a long holiday weekend without his medicine. In gratitude, the old man had arrived with a present—a miniature crab-apple tree planted in a shallow, enameled blue bowl.
“It’s a bonsai,” the customer explained. “It means a plant in a pot.”
The miniature tree evoked warm memories of earlier years. Spencer had never realized how very much he missed the warmth and grace of living in Virginia, where most everyone he knew had been gracious and thoughtful and well mannered. The tree reminded him of the contrast, of how distressing living in California had become. He had come to tolerate the fact that there was no appreciable change of seasons, the rudeness of people in their cars, the lack of any kind of connection to the past, the arrogant stride of pedestrians in Beverly Hills who would walk right over or into you if you did not move out of their way, the sounds of every language in the world except English in the shops and restaurants. It was all very unsettling.
Spencer cultivated the little crab-apple tree all winter long and was rewarded in the spring with pink and white blossoms that covered it. Spencer was enthralled. While he had never had a real hobby, he had always loved trees. He loved their silhouettes in the winter when their leaves were gone. He was refreshed each spring by the appearance of the buds, their swelling and unfolding into new green leaves, and finally their rich and exuberant colors that came with the fall.
The gift of the first bonsai sparked an interest that grew from curiosity to obsession. He learned there were shops that specialized in the hobby. Often the small trees had been imported from Japan and were for sale at staggering prices. A less-expensive way to build a collection was to find a small tree at the local nursery and miniaturize it oneself. His collection grew, and within a year Spencer was caring for fifty trees of various varieties. He had rarely exhibited passion, so his interest in his new hobby surprised all who knew him.
One of the bonsai Spencer bought was to become his most favorite plant. He found it in a nursery in the San Gabriel Valley, a wisteria vine that had been reduced in height to a foot and a half. From rugged, half-visible roots called the nebari by the Japanese, there rose a thick, gracefully curved trunk from which limbs extended, each of them fashioned according to the strict rules of the art, and each dripping with clusters of purple blossoms. It had been imported from Japan and he’d paid 250 for it.
“Do you think that was too much?” he asked his wife, Karen, that night when he brought it home.
“Of course not,” she said. “It’s very beautiful, and if it makes you happy, why not! You can afford it!”
Spencer’s collection continued to grow. He specialized in deciduous trees—crab apple, quince, liquid amber, Japanese maples—but his prize specimen was always his wisteria.
Housing so many plants was a challenge. He built a greenhouse and filled it immediately. He created a space under the pool deck in a spot that received just the proper amount of sun and shelter from wind. He built benches. He bought oriental stools and stands and shelves to hold them and still he could not stop.
His life became a pleasantly demanding routine of pinching, trimming, watering, fertilizing, grooming, and shaping the little trees. If a frost threatened, he would move them all into the basement until the weather was friendlier. If he had to go out of town for longer than two days, he hired a specialist to do the watering and to keep an eye open for thieves, for there is a thriving black market for the better-specimen trees.
He joined his local bonsai club and learned more about the art. He learned that the practice of bonsai began many centuries ago in China. It then traveled to Japan, where it flourished. Following World War II, the practice was brought to America by returning soldiers, where it has become one of the fastest-growing hobbies of all time.
He won prizes for his trees and each spring when the wisteria was in blossom he showed it at the Desmond Gardens Bonsai Show and won First Prize in the Advanced Category.
One of his trademarks was the creation of small landscapes at the base of some of his plants. They usually represented a garden or a pond or a temple. Always the landscape was peopled with tiny oriental figures that he found at the specialty shops—a bench where two philosophers in deep discussion were sitting, a Buddha in the lotus position decorating the entrance to a temple, a lawn where two white cranes bowed each to the other, a kimono-clad female figure holding a parasol.
Spencer’s preoccupation with his plants took over his life. He neglected his wife and let her go on trips without him. He hired assistants to run the drugstore, ignored his grandchildren, and stopped going to church. He thought of nothing but his trees.
His wife was tolerant. When friends made observations about his peculiar behavior she would say, “Oh, that’s just Spencer! He’s always been a tree hugger.”
Spencer grew more and more obsessed. He traveled to Japan to study with a bonsai master. He enrolled in classes in horticulture at the local community college to improve his knowledge of the cultivation of trees in general. He studied cases of dwarfism in plants and humans and even read in-depth accounts of the Jiraco Indians in Brazil, who decapitated their enemies and miniaturized their heads. He learned how to cut off the sap to stunt the growth of selected limbs. He read extensively about mummification practices, the phenomenon of mind over matter, voodoo, and black magic.
After breaking the branch on Spencer’s wisteria tree, Rusty, the pool man, disappeared. His truck seemingly had been deserted on the street outside Spencer’s residence. The only thing missing from the truck was Rusty’s skimmer. There was no body, nor were there witnesses or clues. There was an investigation, but everybody overlooked the evidence that was clearly visible to the naked eye.
In the mossy area surrounding the trunk of the wisteria bonsai there was recently installed a tiny, artificial pond. The miniature figure of a fisherman stood beside the pond, but if one examined the figure more thoroughly, he would discern that the face was not Oriental and that the object held in its hands was not a fishing pole, but a miniature pool skimmer. And if one moved in even closer and listened carefully, he could hear a faint little voice calling, “Help.”
Persons seeking employment would be well advised to learn all they can about their potential employer’s hobbies. Especially if that employer has a fondness for small trees and the practice of bonsai in the Twilight Zone.
There is a fifth dimension, beyond those that are known to man. It is a dimension as vast as space and as timeless as infinity. It is the middle ground between light and shadow—between science and superstition. This is the dimension of the imagination, where creations of air and darkness live on the sidelines, waiting to get back into the game of Life. It is an area that we call the Twilight Zone.
H
e’d been sitting on the sidelines, warming the bench, waiting, for almost seventy years. The w
inds of Time chilled him to the bone, and all he had to keep him warm were his memories, which got a little older and a little colder each day.
He wasn’t an imposing figure. There were days he looked like Humpty Dumpty before the fall, and days he looked more like a teddy bear. It didn’t make any difference to him. He had never seen a mirror, nor did he care to.
He could have chosen any name he wanted, but he stuck with Mr. Paloobi, for reasons only one other person would understand. It didn’t have much dignity to it, but then, dignity was not his stock in trade.
He envied his companions. Not their grace, their easy athletic ability, or their infectious laughter, because those traits were unimportant him. No, what he envied was the fact that sooner or later they were all called back into action, they all returned to what he thought of as The Game. He wanted desperately to leave the bench, but he didn’t know the ground rules. He couldn’t even discern that there were any.
He’d been given two brief chances, but he hadn’t lasted any longer than a sore-armed pitcher on the mound, a lame Thoroughbred on the track, or a tennis player with no racket. He had tried his best, had given it his all, but he hadn’t been up to the job, and indeed had to face that fact that there was only one job that he was truly suited for—and that job had ended sixty-eight years, four months, and seventeen days ago.
It had happened on the last day that he was called forth from the limbo where he was born, where he existed now until he was needed again. It was a day filled with the same promise as the day before, the same exciting horizon to be approached, the same challenges, and the same goals. But there was one thing that was not the same.
On that day the Boy outgrew him, and nothing was ever the same again.
Even after all those years, he was still unable to remember that day without feeling a keen sense of loss, and the thought that he’d never be complete again. Day after day, year after year, he sat on the sidelines and watched as his companions came and went. And while he kept the bench warm for the others, he waited for his chance to do what he’d been born to do.
All he wanted was to be needed again.
Mr. Paloobi could hear the contented rumble of Lionel’s purr long before he ambled out of the mist and made his way to the bench.
Looking more like a four-hundred-pound tabby cat than a true lion, Lionel nevertheless appeared quite impressive as he bounded onto the bench, the seat automatically changing shape to accommodate the gentle beast that now lay curled up on its surface.
Mr. Paloobi turned to look at him expectantly as the big cat nestled his head in among his forepaws and curled his tail around his body, softly purring a lullaby to himself.
Sensing his gaze, Lionel opened one lazy eye. “My boy is sleeping after our safari in Darkest Africa.”
“Africa?” said Mr. Paloobi. “I thought he lived just outside of Wichita.”
“He does,” confirmed Lionel. “But his imagination doesn’t. We tracked zebras down Maple Street, made a kill at the corner of Third and Main, and barely avoided a stampede of mad elephants on wheels over on Elm Street. There were spear-carrying natives whose witch doctors had made their spears appear like briefcases (though we knew better), and as we passed a brick hut with a huge screen, we saw hundreds of disguised hyenas laughing as they came out. Oh, yes, it was quite a safari. You have no idea how many scrapes we got into, how many hairbreadth escapes.”
“And you enjoyed every minute of it.”
Lionel’s eyes softened perceptibly, glowing amber. “And I enjoyed every minute of our time together. I’ll miss him—until my next charge comes along.” He sighed contentedly, settling his head back down onto his forepaws. “I could sleep for a couple of months. That boy wore me out!”
“Try sitting on the same hardwood bench for decades and then complain to me,” replied Mr. Paloobi bitterly.
“Try wearing this goddamned costume day in and day out,” retorted a fairy princess who suddenly appeared before them in a burst of pink glitter. “Then you’d have something to really complain about. This corset is killing me.” Her golden curls bounced, as if to emphasize her point. “A pox on the girl who designed me! Who in their right mind decides that princesses should wear such constrictive dresses?”
“So take it off, Sugarblossom,” said Mr. Paloobi.
“It doesn’t come off,” said Sugarblossom. “You know that. And the worst part is the smell.”
“The smell?”
“She heard they used whalebone stays, so it smells exactly like a dead fish.”
Mr. Paloobi chuckled. “I’m sorry. But welcome back anyway. You were with your current charge longer than usual.”
“Oh, yes, I was! And what a charming young lady she’ll grow up to be,” she said proudly, beaming at him, her smile more brilliant than the sequined dress, crystal tiara, and glitter-covered shoes combined. “It turned out my girl needed a substitute mother even more than she needed someone to play make-believe with.” Her smile became wistful, her eyes getting a faraway look to them as she continued. “She lost her mother recently, and she was grieving. Her mother always used to let her dress up in her old fancy clothes, and so did I. I also took over the role as her confidante until she could adjust to the changes in her life.” She paused, twirling her skirt around softly, absent-mindedly, with her hands. “Every child is a wonder, but this one was something special. She won’t remember me when she’s older, of course, but I truly believe I was able to help her.”
“I don’t help ’em,” said Lionel. “I just play with ’em.” He opened his mouth to roar; it came out as a squeak.
The bench adjusted to accommodate Sugarblossom as she sat down.
“Why does it supply you with pillows?” Mr. Paloobi asked, trying unsuccessfully to hide his exasperation.
“Because a princess needs her comfort,” she replied with a smile. “Besides, this princess needs her rest. There is always a little girl somewhere in the world, with a teacup set or a fairy costume, that wants to play make-believe.” She smoothed out the sumptuous velvet pillows with delicate little hands. “I think I deserve a little luxury in my downtime.”
He didn’t reply. Only the soft rumble of the slumbering cat broke the silence.
After a while Sugarblossom looked at him, the sparkles in her eyes softening. “I’m sorry. That was inconsiderate of me. How can I complain, when . . . ?” She let the words hang in the air.
“There’s nothing to be sorry about,” answered Mr. Paloobi. “If I’m to have my innings in The Game only once, at least I cherish every second I spent with the boy who called me forth.”
“But it was so long ago,” she said sympathetically.
Mr. Paloobi’s hand reached up to his shirt pocket and felt the little object it contained, and his mind raced back across the decades to the day he was born.
As the Boy painstakingly placed the pewter pieces on the ornate chessboard his father had brought back from his last trip abroad, he wished that someone would teach him how to play the game. But his parents always seemed to be absent, even when they were there, and it was obvious that he was going to have to teach himself—and he had no idea how to go about it. It wasn’t chess itself that appealed to him, anyway. The satisfying thing was to sit across the board from a parent, a sibling, a friend, even a stranger, and not feel so terribly, achingly lonely.
When he’d finally finished setting it up on the rickety little card table he had dragged from the spare room, he placed a chair on either side of it and sat down.
And then it hit him: he had no idea if he’d put the pieces on the right squares, and he still had no one to play it with. He closed his eyes as tears of frustration began to form. I’m a big boy now, he told himself, as little balled-up hands angrily dashed across his eyes, scattering his tears. Big boys aren’t supposed to cry.
But he couldn’t help it. He just wished for someone, anyone, to acknowledge that he was there.
“It’s just a game,” said a friendly voice. “It can’t b
e that hard to play.”
The Boy stopped crying, startled. He gingerly opened one eye, then both. He couldn’t see anyone, blurry eyes or not. He sighed and closed them again.
“Surely if we put our heads together we can figure this thing out,” the voice continued.
The Boy was startled again. This time the voice had sounded as if it came from the other side of the table. Someone else was in the room! He opened his eyes just in time to see a figure coalescing across the table from him.
It wasn’t his father, he was certain of that, but he looked kind of tall and burly—just like his dad. And yet, he had sounded so affectionate. The man must look cuddly, the Boy reasoned. He rubbed his eyes again to clear them, and sure enough, he was right: a nondescript but definitely cuddly teddy bear of a man sat across from him, a gentle smile on his face. He was dressed like Dad, but that was where the resemblance stopped. He had fuzzy ears, warm brown hair, and even warmer eyes, the least threatening adult the Boy had ever seen.
Speechless, but remembering his manners, the Boy extended his tiny hand across the table, trustingly, to greet his new guest. A huge, furry paw of a hand encompassed his before pulling back to pick up one of the chess pieces. The stranger studied it for a minute, clearly curious, then looked up at the Boy. “So, shall we learn how to play chess together?” he asked.
“But you’re a grown-up,” the Boy replied somewhat petulantly. “Grown-ups know how to play chess.”
“Well then, of course I do too,” replied the gentle giant. Without preamble, he started moving all the pieces into their proper positions on the board while the Boy watched him, marveling at how such a huge man found it possible to balance on such a small chair.
Suddenly, the chair collapsed beneath the man, sending him sprawling. The Boy broke into a fit of giggles. When he finally got control of himself, he looked up, somewhat sheepishly, to see that the man was looking sheepish himself.
Twilight Zone Anthology Page 7
