She smiled at him. "Good night, Mr. Boone," she said and took the tray to a table full of young cowhands in tight jeans trying their best to look like Paul Newman in Hud.
Harley watched her with a pensive little smile on his leathery face. He seemed to undergo a transformation; his beer belly disappeared, the permanently grease-filled creases on his hands faded, his coarseness sloughed away and he was young again and trim and handsome with a lifetime of promise ahead of him instead of a lifetime of indifference behind him. But it was only an illusion, a self-induced and contagious state of mind generated by the presence of Susanne Delacourt.
She affected all of them. Those young cowboys she was waiting on, so arrogantly aware of their own sexuality, acted like Sunday school children around Susanne. It hadn't been quite like that when she started working for me six months earlier. Everyone knew about her and Billy Star.
Billy Star wasn't his real name, of course. He apparently had the notion the name made the object; if he changed his name to "Star" he would become one. But he was only a second-rate rodeo rider. No one could understand why she loved him, no one could see what was so special about him. He was no better looking, no smarter, and certainly no kinder than any of the young cowboys she served coffee, but she loved him.
They had come in that night six months earlier to eat. He'd been riding in a rodeo at Lamesa and hadn't done too well. They were driving through to Fort Worth and he was already a little bit drunk. He was feeling rotten because of the rodeo and he talked a lot. So everyone knew he wasn't married to Susanne but that she was living with him. Then, when she went to the lady's room, he paid the check, got in his five-year-old Imperial, and left her.
Everyone in the place just looked at each other in stunned silence. Then they watched the door of the lady's room until she came out. She looked at the empty table, then went to the window and looked at the empty parking space. She didn't cry or get hysterical or ask questions. She just stood there for a moment looking out the window. The people turned back to their plates in embarrassment. Then she sorta squared her shoulders, came to the cash register, and asked me for a job.
I hadn't really needed another waitress, but I hired her anyway. I even let her have one of the rooms over the cafe. The place had been a hotel back during the oil boom in the 1920s, but when I bought it I had closed it up as more trouble than it was worth.
Susanne probably had twenty propositions the first night she worked. She'd been living with a rodeo cowboy who had ditched her, after all, so most of the young bucks and a few of the older ones didn't see any reason why they shouldn't take his place. But she just smiled the way she does, not offended, and said she was waiting for Billy Star to return for her.
It took barely a week before everyone loved Susanne Delacourt—and hated Billy Star for what he had done. And no one could understand why she still loved him or expected him to come back. I even asked Maurine Eubanks, the other night waitress, but she just gave me a pitying look and muttered something about "men."
Headlights flashed on the window and I looked out. It had grown completely dark and the sand was so thick I could barely see the neon lights of the Caprock Motel across the highway. The two state troopers got out of the patrol car, shivered in the cold wind, and rushed to the door.
Just then the jukebox started playing "The Tennessee Waltz" and I looked over at Susanne. She was slicing fresh-baked pies with a wistful expression on her face.
The door rattled open letting in a blast of icy air. Pete Rankin's belly hung over the belt of his uniform making his gun hang crooked. "Wade," he said and pulled off his black leather gloves. Davey Boyd grinned at me and looked at Susanne.
She held up the hot peach pie and grinned. Pete and Davey sat at the counter, their leather holsters creaking from the cold. They came in every night at the same time; that's why Susanne had the peach pie ready.
Everyone thought something might happen between her and Davey Boyd. They hoped it would; he was the only man around everyone could agree was good enough for her. Davey was local. He was born in Caprock, graduated from the high school where he'd been a pretty fair football player, then got on with the state police. Everyone had always liked Davey and were a little bit surprised that they still liked him even after he became a cop.
"She likes my harmonica better than me," he said one morning sitting by the cash register over a cup of coffee looking sad and very young. Davey could play the harmonica better than anybody I ever heard. He could make it sing sweet and pure or he could make it cry like a broken-hearted woman and could bring a lump to any grizzled old throat.
One night when the jukebox finished a record and didn't start another one, he took the harmonica from his pocket while sitting at the counter and fiddled around with it a while then very softly began playing "The Tennessee Waltz." Susanne watched him with big sad eyes then, when he finished, put her hand on his in thanks. He looked around and saw everyone quietly listening and blushed.
Davey Boyd loved Susanne all right, and she liked him probably more than anyone else, but she loved Billy Star.
It was later that night ten years ago, nearly at closing time, when the new International pickup stopped at the cafe. The sandstorm was howling and the temperature had dropped nearly to twenty. The window was fogged and I had to wipe it off to see who had pulled in. I didn't recognize the pickup and I couldn't see much of the man who ran in hunched against the wind.
The cafe was empty except for me and Susanne and the cook back in the kitchen. I'd let Maurine off early because hardly anyone had been in since the sandstorm got going good. I was tallying the receipts and Susanne was stacking coffee cups. The door opened and he came in rubbing his hands together. The cook stuck his head out of the kitchen to see who it was and I could tell by his frown he'd already cleaned up.
The man grinned. "Am I too late to get something to eat?" he asked. The cook's frown deepened.
Susanne turned to look. The man's face lit with pleasure when he saw her, then it sorta crumpled.
"Susanne," he stammered. "What … what are you doing here?"
"Hello, Cliff," she said softly.
"Where have you been? Billy … Billy wouldn't tell us."
I should've figured he was a rodeo cowboy by the look of him, but I couldn't figure what he was doing around here at that time of year. He and Susanne just stood there looking at each other while the cook glowered at me.
"The kitchen's closed," I said. "All we can manage is a hamburger."
"Oh," he said turning to me, rubbing his hands on his thighs. "That's fine. Give me a couple … and coffee."
Susanne drew the coffee. He took the cup and went to a back booth. She finished straightening up, glancing back at him occasionally. He didn't look up; just sat hunkered over the table.
When Susanne took the hamburgers to the booth she sat down opposite him and they talked quietly while he ate. He finished but still they talked. The cook looked out at me questioningly and I nodded for him to go on home.
Finally the man got up but Susanne kept sitting there staring at nothing, no expression on her face. He came to the register and paid, then looked back at her.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"What did you tell her?" I asked, hating him for upsetting our tranquil routine.
He looked at his hands, then back at me. He sighed. "Billy Star," he said. "He's dead."
"What happened? The rodeo?"
"No," he said, and shrugged. "He was drunk. Ran his car into a tree. Yesterday, near Lubbock. His folks live in Lubbock. The funeral's tomorrow. That's where I'm going."
"Is Susanne going?"
"No. I told her I'd take her and bring her back, but she doesn't want to go." He frowned. "She said she'd wait for him here." He sighed again. "I wish there was something I could do."
"I'll take care of her," I said.
He nodded. "Thank you. She's special."
"I know."
He started for the door and turned back. "I'll stop i
n on my way back."
I nodded. He looked at Susanne sitting in the booth but she didn't look up. He went on out the door. I locked up and turned off the neon sign and watched the pickup back out and head west into the wind.
I went to the booth and sat across from Susanne but she didn't seem to see me. I put my hands on hers. Her eyes focused on mine and she didn't pull her hands away.
"Billy's dead," she said, her voice almost too low to hear.
"I know."
"Billy's dead," she said again, but she didn't cry.
"Is there anything I can do?"
She shook her head.
"Will you be okay?"
"Yes. I'm okay."
"I don't want to leave you here alone. I'll call Maurine. You can stay with her."
She shook her head again. "I'll be okay."
"You know Maurine will want you to stay with her."
"Yes. I'd rather be alone though. I'll be all right. You go on home."
"You're sure?"
She smiled and squeezed my hands. "Yes. I'm sure. You go on home."
So I left her there, still sitting in the booth, and drove the half mile to my house. I called Maurine and told her what had happened and asked her to check on Susanne in the morning. I went to bed and lay there listening to the wind and couldn't sleep. The air was dusty even in the house and I felt as if I couldn't breathe. An hour later I got up and dressed and went back to the cafe.
That was the last time I ever saw Susanne. The next morning when Maurine went to her room she wasn't there. The bed hadn't been slept in and nothing was missing. Davey Boyd tried to find her for months. I knew he wouldn't, that no one would ever see her again.
When I went back to the cafe that night the lights were turned off, but over the sound of the wind I could hear the jukebox playing. I tried to look in the window but the glass was fogged and I couldn't see. I opened the door as quietly as I could. It was dark but I could see by the lights of the jukebox. They were moving slowly, huddled in each other's arms. They didn't notice me, they were so absorbed with themselves, so I closed the door and left them there; Susanne Delacourt and Billy Star dancing while the jukebox played "The Tennessee Waltz."
The End
© 1978 by Tom Reamy. First appeared in Shayol#2; from San Diego Lightfoot Sue; reprinted by permission of the author's Estate and the Estate's agents, the Virginia Kidd Agency, Inc.
Protection
Robert Sheckley
There'll be an airplane crash in Burma next week, but it shouldn't affect me here in New York. And the feegs certainly can't harm me. Not with all my closet doors closed.
No, the big problem is lesnerizing. I must not lesnerize. Absolutely not. As you can imagine, that hampers me.
And to top it all, I think I'm catching a really nasty cold.
The whole thing started on the evening of November seventh. I was walking down Broadway on my way to Baker's Cafeteria. On my lips was a faint smile, due to having passed a tough physics exam earlier in the day. In my pocket, jingling faintly, were five coins, three keys, and a book of matches.
Just to complete the picture, let me add that the wind was from the northwest at five miles an hour, Venus was in the ascendancy and the moon was decidedly gibbous. You can draw your own conclusions from this.
I reached the corner of 98th Street and began to cross. As I stepped off the curb, someone yelled at me, "The truck! Watch the truck!"
I jumped back, looking around wildly. There was nothing in sight. Then, a full second later, a truck cut around the corner on two wheels, ran through the red light and roared up Broadway. Without the warning, I would have been hit.
You've heard stories like this, haven't you? About the strange voice that warned Aunt Minnie to stay out of the elevator, which then crashed to the basement. Or maybe it told Uncle Joe not to sail on the Titanic. That's where the story usually ends.
I wish mine ended there.
"Thanks, friend," I said and looked around. There was no one there.
"Can you still hear me?" the voice asked.
"Sure I can." I turned a complete circle and stared suspiciously at the closed apartment windows overhead. "But where in the blue blazes are you?"
"Gronish," the voice answered. "Is that the referent? Refraction index. Creature of insubstantiality. The Shadow knows. Did I pick the right one?"
"You're invisible?" I hazarded.
"That's it!"
"But what are you?"
"A validusian derg."
"A what?"
"I am—open your larynx a little wider please. Let me see now. I am the Spirit of Christmas Past. The Creature from the Black Lagoon. The Bride of Frankenstein. The—"
"Hold on," I said. "What are you trying to tell me—that you're a ghost or a creature from another planet?"
"Same thing," the derg replied. "Obviously."
That made is all perfectly clear. Any fool could see that the voice belonged to someone from another planet. He was invisible on Earth, but his superior senses had spotted an approaching danger and warned me of it.
Just a plain, everyday supernormal incident.
I began to walk hurriedly down Broadway.
"What is the matter?" the invisible derg asked.
"Not a thing," I answered, "except that I seem to be standing in the middle of the street talking to an invisible alien from the farthest reaches of outer space. I suppose only I can hear you?"
"Well, naturally."
"Great! You know where this sort of thing will land me?"
"The concept you are sub-vocalizing is not entirely clear."
"The loony bin. Nut house. Bug factory. Psychotic ward. That's where they put people who talk to invisible aliens. Thanks for the warning, buddy. Good night."
Feeling lightheaded, I turned east, hoping my invisible friend would continue down Broadway.
"Won't you talk with me?" the derg asked.
I shook my head, a harmless gesture they can't pick you up for, and kept on walking.
"But you must," the derg said with a hint of desperation. "A real sub-vocal contact is very rare and astonishingly difficult. Sometimes I can get across a warning, just before a danger moment. But then the connection fades."
So there was the explanation for Aunt Minnie's premonition. But I still wasn't having any.
"Conditions might not be right again for a hundred years!" the derg mourned.
What conditions? Five coins and three keys jingling together when Venus was ascendant? I suppose it's worthy of investigation—but not by me. You never can prove that supernormal stuff. There are enough people knitting slipcovers for straitjackets without me swelling their ranks.
"Just leave me alone," I said. A cop gave me a funny look for that one. I grinned boyishly and hurried on.
"I appreciate your social situation," the derg urged, "but this contact is in your own best interests. I want to protect you from the myriad dangers of human existence."
I didn't answer him.
"Well," the derg said, "I can't force you. I'll just have to offer my services elsewhere. Goodbye, friend."
I nodded pleasantly.
"One last thing," he said. "Stay off subways tomorrow between noon and one-fifteen P.M. Goodbye."
"Huh? Why?"
"Someone will be killed at Columbus Circle, pushed in front of a train by shopping crowds. You, if you are there. Goodbye."
"Someone will be killed there tomorrow?" I asked. "You're sure?"
"Of course."
"It'll be in the newspapers?"
"I should imagine so."
"And you know all sorts of stuff like that?"
"I can perceive all dangers radiating toward you and extending into time. My one desire is to protect you from them."
I had stopped. Two girls were giggling at me talking to myself. Now I began walking again.
"Look," I whispered, "can you wait until tomorrow evening?"
"You will let me be your protector?" the derg asked eager
ly.
"I'll tell you tomorrow," I said. "After I read the late papers."
The item was there, all right. I read it in my furnished room on 113th Street. Man pushed by the crowd, lost his balance, fell in front of an oncoming train. This gave me a lot to think about while waiting for my invisible protector to show up.
I didn't know what to do. His desire to protect me seemed genuine enough. But I didn't know if I wanted it. When, an hour later, the derg contacted me, I liked the whole idea even less, and told him so.
"Don't you trust me?" he asked.
"I just want to lead a normal life."
"If you lead any life at all," he reminded me. "That truck last night—"
"That was a freak, a once-in-a-lifetime hazard."
"It only takes once in a lifetime to die," the derg said solemnly. "There was the subway, too."
"That doesn't count. I hadn't planned on riding it today."
"But you had no reason not to ride it. That's the important thing. Just as you have no reason not to take a shower in the next hour."
"Why shouldn't I?"
"A Miss Flynn," the derg said, "who lives down the hall, has just completed her shower and has left a bar of melting pink soap on the pink tile in the bathroom on this floor. You would have slipped on it and suffered a sprained wrist."
"Not fatal, huh?"
"No. Hardly in the same class with, let us say, a heavy flower-pot pushed from a rooftop by a certain unstable old gentleman."
"When is that going to happen?" I asked.
"I thought you weren't interested."
"I'm very interested. When? Where?"
"Will you let me continue to protect you?" he asked.
"Just tell me one thing," I said. "What's in this for you?"
"Satisfaction!" he said. "For a validusian derg, the greatest thrill possible is to aid another creature evade danger."
"But isn't there something else you want out of it? Some trifle like my soul, or rulership of Earth?"
"Nothing! To accept payment for Protecting would ruin the emotional experience. All I want out of life—all any derg wants—is to protect someone from the dangers he cannot see, but which we can see all too well." The derg paused, then added softly, "We don't even expect gratitude."
Sci Fiction Classics Volume 2 Page 47
