by Whit Burnett
sound in the street, some footfall in the house. But no sound
came from the gloomy inn, none from the town but the misplaced music of the distant band in the Zocodover. These crazy Spaniards, with their jetes!
He scrutinized the tack in his hand. He weighed it carefully
and then pinched it in two fingers and lifted the hatchet in his
right hand. Above the tack it poised an instant, and then
descended.
No brittle metal sound came back. The t.ack bounced away
and fell beside me, soundless, springing back weirdly into the
air, and then was lost again on the ground where I Jay.
The tacks were rubber!
I knew the tacks were rubber by no unusual faculty of mind.
Who has not seen those insane products of the notion stores of
America: ink blots made out of black celluloid to sell to juvenile minds for ten cents, cigars that explode when half-smoked, imitation flies to pin on one's lapel and amuse one's friends?
Rubber tacks!
Betrayed as I was by this heinous trick of fate, I sensed then
the utter uselessness of living further. Why not capitulate? Why
not-for a tack's sake as for a woman's, or a country's, or a
people's, for art's sake, Menipo's or for God's?
But it was strange withal, I mused, that they were really
rubber tacks. Before I had reasoned out an action, I found I
was on my feet beside the madman, absorbed with him in examination of these important objects.
He threw down the hatchet. It clattered on the stones. Then
he tried to place a tack with the hammer.
The tack bounced away, and then, reaching again into the
b�rrel •. I sa� him draw out of it half a dozen six-inch spikes,
gltstenmg With true steel. These were no rubber counterfeits.
And then, ending all child's play at the shelf, he came at me,
hammer in one hand, and these cruel crucifixion nails glistening
in the other.
"Now you," he said. "Su cabeza! Su corazonl"
The Night of the Gran Balle Mascara
121
•
I got that much. My head whirled with the pain of my fall
and with the excitement and fear of my plight. He was going to
drive these nails into my head, into my heart ! I knew this as
well as if he had said it a dozen times. From his eyes to mine
danced a message of terror that drained me of my elements, of
reason, caution, hope and courage.
I crouched. I lay down. Flattened myself, as before, on my
back. If I could worm away, I thought, from this towering oppressor! My hand touched the hatchet, and I hurled it with the crying speed of a cyclone.
It struck his head and the blood came. Rich and red as the
Spanish flag, deep hued as hull's blood on a black hide.
And then occurred what frightens me now, but did not then.
I had not killed Menipo. He reached for the hatchet, fa1len
again on the floor. But when he lifted his head, I saw then a
great change in the maniac. Though blood was on his face and
his hair and beard were tangled in a wildness, unearthly and
mad, there was a new clarity in his eyes. He looked at the
hatchet in his hands with wonder and then down at me.
Now, I thought, it is over. With calm precision he will slay
me, hammering my head into the cobblestones. But, I still have
a voice. Ten seconds may save me.
"Loco, loco!" I shouted, "Help !"
And at that moment help arrived. I saw the white movement
of the proprietor's apron as he turned the corner street to the
doorway. But the madman had seen the movement, too. And
on my chest I felt the hatchet fall. My fingers clutched it hopefully.
"Who called out?" roared the heavy voiced proprietor. "Who
is a madman here?''
Who, indeed? I could not lift my head. Much time must certainly have passed with that great giant looming over me. I felt strangely relaxed, almost at ho,rne resting on the floor, like a
worm, like a dog, smelling, with only half my consciousness, the
ground, the chill stone and straw.
I lacked a beard, though, I recalled. That was it. If I had
had the beard when starting out . .
I clutched at the straw on
.
the floor and tucked some under my chin. At a mascara, you
know, it is the quaintness th�t attracts. And one must be
imaginative.
I looked up.
"Who," cried the proprietor, "started all this? Who is crazy
here?''
I could not answer him in words that he would know. My
Spanish took queer turns and starts. I mumbled all the tongues
I knew.
And then I heard a voice by the register shelf that was like
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Nineteen Tales of Terror
•
the voice of myself, calm and well-poised as when I order dinner in a great place. And the voice was that of Menipo, the madman.
"There," he was saying, "is the madman. He is crazy-see
him on the floor there, like a dog. I was passing by, on my way
to the gran baile mascara, when the dog there sprang upon me
with a hatchet. Look at my cheek here. Call a guard, and lock
him safe in jail."
This is what I heard. Everyone heard it. Could I deny it?
I clutched at the proprietor's apron.
"Look," I said, "at my beard here. I am the real Menipo.
How could I have hurt that thing? He is a picture by Velasquez.
You are idiots. You are all mad!"
And so they are, though no one will see this but myself.
MAY SARTON
THE SCREEN
IT was only when Dexter Randall found the
train was late and he had, suddenly, a half-hour, an empty halfhour, before him that he had time to realize with distaste that this was to be a dramatic meeting. In so far as it was, he was
unprepared. For he had lived in a state of acute anxiety for a
long time and had grown accustomed to doing the next thing
and not looking ahead, because to look ahead was too frightening. He stood now, an island of apprehension, in the middle of Grand Central while everyone else hurried about his business.
No one could possibly guess, he told himself. He could be in no
way conspicuous in his gabardine coat, dark gray fedora and
good British shoes. He did not wear a sign saying "Wife taken
to asylum, meeting only daughter for Easter holidays," but he
could not have felt more conspicuous if a large bleeding heart
had been pinned to his breast, just over his wallet. It was extremely unfair that he of all people should have to feel like this, lonely, betrayed, set apart from his fellow men.
As he walked deliberately out of the huge hall with its lost
echoes of arrivals and departures, his walk did not suggest
panic. But it was a flight.
Safe in the Oyster Bar, sipping a double martini, be only
postponed the shock. It came as be pulled out a handkerchief
and wiped his upper lip surreptitiously. The martini bad made
him sweat. He saw with perfect clarity that he was facing his
daughter alone for the first time and that she would expect,
would have every right to expect, love. But love was just what
he did not feel and had never felt. Always before, Peggy, his
wife, had stood between him and this daughter who looked so
much like her, the huge dark ey
es in the small narrow head, the
Wariness, the elegance, and a quality which both fascinated and
repelled him of making the smallest things in life become major
1 21
1 28 • Nineteen Tales ol Terror
hurdles and adventures. Always Peggy had arranged what
they would do, the circus for instance, where Margaret had
been sick all over the floor and had to be taken home in tears
from overexcitement; or the Zoo where, it seemed, he had
walked much too fast and overtired her. Peggy had bought the
presents he would give her at Christmas or on birthdays; and
Peggy, of course, had decided to send her to a progressive
boarding school so that she would not suffer from "the tensions" at home. And now Peggy had left him in the lurch, had escaped into madness-no, not madness-but whatever it was,
safe up there in the quiet and the sun while he had to meet the
train and face Margaret alone for ten whole days. He was filled
with resentment.
"Your wife seems to have a deeply rooted anxiety about
money," the doctor had told him. "Of course! this is only a._
symptom, but perhaps you can help us out."
He had been asked to delve for reasons. But all that came
to mind was their bitter quarrels over the joint checking account, her demands for a new fur coat, for a box at the opera, for this expensive school, and then her periods of depression
when she would have corned beef hash every night for a week
"to economize," take back the fur coat she had just persuaded
him to give her, and cry all night. Reason? The reason seemed
to be simply that she insisted on living beyond their income.
What about me? he had wanted to shout at the doctor. What
about my anxieties about money? I pay the bills. I take risks on
the market I have no business taking to pay for that damned
school.
"That damned school!" he said aloud to the martini, and
then became purple with embarrassment. Who was listening?
He looked craftily around.
"Another, sir?"
"No, thanks." He put down a dollar bill and fled. He was
completely shaken. It was the first time in· his life he had taken
a martini at three in the afternoon, and he realized that it was
not a good idea, after all. As he stood once more an island in
the pushing throng coming up the ramp from the train, he was
terrified that he would not recognize Margaret in time to make
the appropriate welcoming smile. But he couldn't go on smiling
idiotically into every face. There seemed to be dozens of pinkfaced, cozy little girls at whom he looked with nostalgia.
"Here I am."
She was standing before him, followed by a porter with the
air of a man delivering a card on a silver platter.
''There he is, honey. No cause to worry, as I been telling
you."
"Why, hello. There you are." They stood looking at each
The Screen • 129
other gravely, bumped by the people thrusting their way forward. "Come along then. A taxi, porter !"
"Did you have a good journey?" he asked, noticing that she
was carrying a large floppy doll in one arm and a red handbag
in the other, so he couldn't very well take her hand. This was a
relief.
"Yes, thank you." She looked at him, unsmiling, tense,
faintly curious as if perhaps he had a queer smell.
"We'll go somewhere as soon as we've dumped the bags,
somewhere grand, and have a grand tea. Chocolate eclairs,
maybe. O.K.?"
"Yes, Daddy," and she gave him a faint relieved smile.
At Rumpelmayer's he noticed that her hands were black and
was furious with himself for overlooking such a simple rite as
the washing of hands in the few moments they had spent together in the apartment. But she had seemed so subdued, so close to tears, walking on tiptoe, that he could hardly wait to
get her away. Now she responded to the attention of the people
at the other tables by a flurry of nervous excitement and hilarity. She ate her eclair greedily and had a fit of giggles when he suggested that that was not a good idea. He asked her, tentatively, about school, what she liked best.
"Football," she announced rather grandly to the world at
large. The two women at the next table laughed. "I like knocking people down," she went on, intoxicated by her success.
"What else do you like?" He felt a change of subject to be
imperative.
"Well," she considered, cocking her head on one side, "history, I guess, because we do plays. Did you ever see a Greek play, Daddy?"
"Did you?" she insisted, apparently fascinated by him now,
turning on him the full intensity, of the dark eyes, so like her
mother (as indeed this whole performance had been, for
Peggy's only kindness to him had been a form of ecstasy, as her
cruelty had also been only the symptom of pain) that he looked
away.
"Yes, I did once-" he said patiently to his plate.
"Did you like it?"
"Well, frankly, it seemed rather loud to me."
"At school we're not allowed to yell. It must be an awfully
funny Greek play you saw." It was clear that she did not believe
him.
"It was Medea," he said defensively.
She seemed delighted. "Ours is lphigenia. I am not Iphigenia," she announced with a shade of bitterness. "There's another girl."
"There's chocolate on your mouth," he said irritably. It was
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Nineteen .Tales of Terror
•
the wrong thing. She was dreadfully embarrassed and looked as
if she were going to cry. She did not wipe off the chocolate and
he knew he must not mention it again.
"What shall ·we do now, Daddy?" she asked plaintively. "I've
finished."
As usual he had no plan and was terrified. He called the
waitress over for the check and fumbled for change. Then he
had an idea.
"I know what we'll do," he announced gaily because he was
so relieved to have an idea. "We'll go and get a present for
mother and maybe a holiday present for you too. How does
that sound?"
Then he was thankfully helping her on with her coat, propelling her to the door, and at last out onto the pavement where he licked his handkerchief and rubbed the · chocolate off her
mouth. "There, that's better."
She did not look at him, but walked by his side, sullen or
aloof, he could not read her face. She seemed absorbed in
avoiding the cracks in the pavement, actually giving a queer
little hop whenever they came to a line in the cement. That
seemed odd in a child with such dignity, and indeed had little
relation to bee thoughts, as was clear when she spoke. They
were at Fifth Avenue waiting for the light to change. Then she
said:
"Why is mother
He was prepared for the question. "She's just very tired,
Margaret. She has to rest."
"Why can't she rest at home?"
The light changed and they scuttled across the street, awkward together because of their different heights and different lengths of step.
"Well, there's the telephone," he said cautiously. "She needs
absolute quiet. Look. There's Schwarz's!" He took her arm
almost roughly and pulled her toward the windows where a
> huge stuffed rabbit was pulling a little cart full of flowers, and
stuffed ducklings walked near a glass pond. Margaret, he noticed, was not looking at these; she was staring at herself reflected in the plate glass.
"If we get mother a present can we take it to her?"
"I think we'd better just send it. We can write on a card. It
will be a surprise."
"She might like a rabbit," Margaret said with sudden enthusiasm. That was not the present Dexter Randall had in mind.
"Suppose we get a rabbit for you and then go across the
street and find something very special for mother," he said
placatingly.
"No," came the stubborn voice.
Tile Screen • 131
"Well, then, let's go in and see." He could feel the tension
taking hold of him, just as it did when he was with Peggy.
But Margaret behaved very well in the store. She asked politely if she could see a large white rabbit. She explained that it was for her mother who was very tired. The clerk treated her
with respect and only a flicker of amusement. A very large rabbit was set down before her.
"He looks cheerful," she said approvingly. The rabbit held a
flannel carrot in its paws: Dexter Randall turned the price tag
over and saw that the rabbit cost twenty dollars. ''This is the
right one, isn't it, Daddy?" She turned up to him a radiant
smile.
"Well, perhaps something a little smaller-" he murmured
with a hopeful glance at the clerk.
"I like this one," she said. For an instant he had the illusion
that Peggy was there in the store, so exactly did the flat determined tone of voice resemble hers. In a moment, he knew, it would rise and finally it would scream at him.
"It's too expensive," he said, shortly.
Margaret was gazing at the rabbit. She appeared not to have
heard.
For so long his deepest feeling had been anything for peace,
that he almost did capitulate. He was putting his hand up to
reach for his wallet. when it suddenly came over him with the
blaze of revelation (as the obvious often does at moments of
crisis) that after all Margaret was not Peggy. He did not have
to placate her at all costs. She did not have up her sleeve the
multiple punishments Peggy could always draw out and use because he loved her too much. At a pinch he could take Margaret over his knee and spank her! The thought dazzled him. For the
