He rubbed his eyes. “I’m going out for a walk.”
“It’s snowing.”
“I’ve got to get out, do you hear? I’m going down to the church and look over the props. I’ve got an idea I want to try out. Go back to sleep.”
It was no use. He would just keep going until he dropped and Molly prayed it wouldn’t happen some time in the middle of a reading—or of a séance, where it would blow up the whole works. If anybody made trouble the cops would nail her along with Stan and in the shape Stan was in he couldn’t talk his way out of a jam no matter how bad it was. Molly was worried sick and took half a sleeping pill herself when he had gone.
It was too early to go out and get a racing form, and all the magazines were old, and nothing was on the radio except platter programs, and they made her feel so lonesome—records being dedicated to the boys in Ed’s Diner out on the turnpike. She wished she was in the diner with the truck drivers having a few laughs.
Stan let himself into the old Peabody house. He was glad he had banked the furnace the night before; down in the cellar he threw in more coal. Soon the fire was roaring and he stood with the heat on his face, watching blue flames feel their way up through the black coal.
After a moment he sighed, shook himself, and unlocked an old metal cabinet which had once held paint and varnish. Inside was a phonograph turntable which he switched on, placing a pickup arm into position above the aluminum record. Then he went upstairs.
The vast room which had been a parlor and a dining room before he knocked the partition out, was still chilly. Stan turned on the lamps. The bridge chairs sat in empty rows, waiting for something to happen to him—something to go wrong. Walking over to a lamp with a dead bulb, he snapped the switch, gave the amplifying tubes a minute to warm up, then crossed to the desk, where the trumpet usually lay at the developmental classes and trumpet séances.
Near the organ his foot, from long habit, found the loosened board beneath the carpet, and he put his weight on it. Ghostly, with the sound of a voice through a metal tube, came the deep tones of Ramakrishna, his spirit guide. “Hari Aum. Greetings, my beloved chelas, my disciples of earth life. You who have gathered here tonight.” The voice stopped; Stan felt a crawling fear flowing over his scalp. The wiring must have broken again. And there was no time to rip it out. Or was it the loudspeaker? Or the motor? He ran down to the cellar; but the disc was still revolving. It must be in the amplifying unit. There was no time to fix it. The séance was scheduled for that evening. He could always blame it on conditions; a séance without phenomena was common enough for all mediums. But Mrs. Prescott was bringing two trusted friends, both social register. He had looked up all the dope on them and the recording was ready. They might not come back. They might be the ones who would bring in the live John he was waiting for.
Stan took off his coat and put on an old smock; he checked the tubes, the wiring. Then he went back upstairs and began to pry the panel loose. The loudspeaker connections were tight enough. Where was the break? And there was no time, no time, no time. He thought of a dozen stalls to tell a radio repairman, and threw them all out. Once he let anyone know the house was wired he was sunk. He thought of getting a repairman from Newark or somewhere. But there was no one he could trust.
Loneliness came over him, like an avalanche of snow. He was alone. Where he had always wanted to be. You can only trust yourself. There’s a rat buried deep in everybody and they’ll rat on you if they get pushed far enough. Every new face that showed up at the séances now seemed charged with suspicion and malice and sly knowledge. Could there be a cabal forming against him in the church?
Frantically he switched on the phonograph again and stepped on the board. “Hari Aum. Greetings, my beloved chelas, my disciples of earth life …” It wasn’t broken! The last time he must have shifted his weight unconsciously off the loose board that closed the circuit. He stopped it now with a chilling fear that the next words the voice, his own voice, would say would not be words he had recorded on aluminum—the record would turn on him with a malevolent life of its own.
In the silence the house was closing in. The walls had not moved, nor the ceiling; not when he looked straight at them. He ran his hands over his hair once and took a deep breath. Hum the first eight bars of our opener. But it was no use.
Outside, across backyards, a dog barked.
“Gyp!”
His own voice startled him. Then he began to laugh.
He laughed as he walked into the hall, laughing up the stairs and in and out of bedrooms, now chastely bare. In the dark-séance room he snapped on the light. Blank white walls. Still laughing and chuckling he snapped the light off and felt for the panel in the baseboard where he kept the projector.
He aimed it at the wall; and there it was, jumping up and down crazily as his hand shook with laughing—the hazy image of an old woman. He twisted a knob and she vanished. Another twist and a baby appeared in a halo of golden mist, jumping crazily as his hand shook with laughing. “Dance, you little bastard,” his voice thundered against the close walls.
He twisted the hand projector until the baby floated upside down, and he roared with laughter. He fell to the floor, laughing, and aimed the beam at the ceiling, watching the baby fly up the angle of the wall and come to rest overhead, still smiling mistily. Laughing and strangling, Stan began to beat the projector against the floor; something snapped, and the light went out.
He crawled to his feet and couldn’t find the door and stopped laughing then, feeling his way around and around. He counted nine corners. He began to shout and then he found it and let himself out, dripping with sweat.
In his office the day was breaking gray through the Venetian blinds. The desk light wouldn’t come on and he seized it and jerked it out of the wall plug and tossed it into a corner. The blinds got tangled with the cord; he gathered them in his arms and wrenched; the whole business came down on top of him and he fought his way free of them. At last the card index.
R. R. R. God damn it. Who had stolen the R’s? Raphaelson, Randolph, Regan—here it was. Woman psychologist, mentioned by Mrs. Tallentyre. Said to be interested in the occult. Has recommended that her patients take yoga exercises. But the phone number, Jesus God, it wasn’t there. Only her name—Dr. Lilith Ritter. Try the phone book. R. R. R.
The voice that answered the telephone was cool, low-pitched, and competent. “Yes?”
“My name is Carlisle. I’ve been having trouble sleeping—”
The voice interrupted. “Why not consult your physician? I am not a doctor of medicine, Mr. Carlisle.”
“I’ve been taking pills, but they don’t seem to help. I’ve been working too hard, they tell me. I want to see you.”
There was silence for a long moment; then the cool voice said, “I can see you the day after tomorrow at eleven in the morning.”
“Not before then?”
“Not before then.”
Stan beat his fist once against the desk top, squeezing his eyes shut. Then he said, “Very well, Dr. Ritter. At eleven o’clock—Tuesday.”
Whatever she might look like, the dame had a wonderful voice. And he must have pulled her out of a sound sleep. But Tuesday—What was he supposed to do until then, chew the rug?
The house grew warmer. Stan went over and pressed his forehead against the chill of the windowpane. Down in the street a girl in a fur coat and no stockings was walking an Irish setter. Stan’s eyes followed the curve of the bare legs, wondering if she had on anything under the fur coat. Some of them run out that way—naked under their furs—to buy cigarettes or club soda or a douche bag.
Back in the flat Molly would be lying sprawled across the bed with her hair caught up on top of her head with a single pin. She would be wearing the black chiffon negligee but she might as well have on a calico wrapper. There was no one to look at her.
The Irish-setter girl turned, tugging at the leash, and the fur coat swung open, showing a pink slip. With a growl of frustration Stan
twisted away from the window. He sat down at the desk and pulled out his appointment book. Message service that evening at eight-thirty. Monday morning, developmental class in trance mediumship and the Science of Cosmic Breath. God, what a herd of hippos. The Science of Cosmic Breath: in through the left nostril, on a count of four. Retain breath for count of sixteen. Exhale through the right nostril to count of eight. Measure the counts by repeating Hari Aum, Hari Aum.
Monday afternoon, lecture on the Esoteric Significance of the Tarot Symbols.
Stan took the Tarot deck from the side drawer and slowly his fingers began remembering; the front-and-back-hand palm, making the cards vanish in the air and drawing them out from under his knee. He paused at one card and laid it before him, holding his head in his hands, studying it. The Lovers. They were naked, standing in Eden with the snake down on the ground all ready to wise them up. Over their heads was the angel-form, its wings extended above the trees of Life and Knowledge. Where the Tree of Life is blooming, there is rest for me.
The lovers were naked. A wave of prickling crawled up over his scalp out of nowhere and, as he watched, the rounded hips and belly of the woman seemed to rotate. Jesus, if this is what I wanted I could have stayed with the Ten-in-One and been talker for the kooch show! There’s a guy that always gets plenty.
He swept the cards to the floor and drew the telephone toward him, dialing. This time the voice said, “Yes, sir. I’ll see if Mrs. Tallentyre’s in.”
She was in to the Rev. Carlisle.
“Mrs. Tallentyre, I spent most of last night in meditation. And from my meditation I drew a thought. I shall have to seek three days of silence. Unfortunately I cannot go to the Himalayas, but I think the Catskills will serve. You understand, I’m sure. I would appreciate it if you will take charge of the service tonight and notify class members that I have been called away. Just say that I have gone in search of the Silence. I shall return, without fail, on the third day.”
That was that. Now lock up. Lock the office door—time to clean up all the havoc later. Leave the appointment book downstairs on the hall table. Mrs. Tallentyre had a key to the outside door. Leave the inner door unlocked.
He put on his coat and a few minutes later was hurrying through the soft snow.
“Gee, honey, I’m glad you come back! Are you okay?”
“Yeah. Sure. How many times do I have to tell you I can take care of myself?”
“Want a couple of eggs? I’m starved. Let me fix you a couple. The coffee’s all ready.”
Stan stood in the kitchen door watching her. She was wearing the black chiffon negligee; against the early winter light from the window she might as well not have had on a stitch. Whoever figured out dames’ clothes knew his onions. What made her seem so far away and long ago? The one dame who wouldn’t cross him up. And the shape was still something you usually see behind footlights or in magazines.
Stan ran his hands once over his hair and said, “Come here.” They stood watching each other for a moment, and he saw her take a deep breath. Then she turned off the gas under the skillet and ran over and threw her arms around his neck.
It was like kissing the back of your own hand but he picked her up in his arms and carried her into the bedroom. She clung to him and slid her hand under his shirt and he drew the chiffon open and started to kiss her shoulder but it was no use.
And now she was crying, looking up at him reproachfully as he threw on his jacket.
“Sorry, kid. I’ve got to get away. I’ll be back Tuesday. I’ve— I’ve got to breathe.”
When he had thrown some stuff in a keyster and locked it and hurried out Molly pulled the covers over her, still crying, and drew up her knees. After a while she got up and put on a robe and fried herself an egg. She didn’t seem to be able to get enough salt on it, and in the middle of breakfast she suddenly took the plate and slammed it on the floor of the kitchen.
“Oh, God damn it, what’s eating him? How can I know how to give him a party if I don’t know what’s the matter?”
After a while she got dressed and went out to have her hair washed and set. First she went around to the barber shop and saw Mickey, and he handed her sixteen dollars. The horse had paid off at seven to one.
With the wheels clicking past under him, Stan felt a little better. The Palisades had fingers of snow pointing up their slopes, and the river was rough with broken ice, where gulls sailed and settled. He read, sketchily, in Ouspensky’s A New Model of the Universe, looking for tag lines he could pull out and use, jotting notes in the margin for a possible class in fourth dimensional immortality. Immortality was what they wanted. If they thought they could find it in the fourth dimension he would show them how. Who the hell knew what the fourth dimension was, anyway? Chumps. Johns.
A girl was having trouble getting her valise down from the rack and Stan leaped up to help her. Getting off at Pough-keepsie. His hand touched hers on the valise handle and he felt blood rising over his face. The kid was luscious; his eyes followed her as she walked primly down the car, carrying the bag before her. He crossed the train and watched her, out on the platform.
When he got to Albany he took a cab to the hotel, stopping off to buy a fifth of Scotch undercover from a saloon.
The room was good-sized and cleaner than most.
“You ain’t been through lately, Mr. Charles. Territory been changed?”
Stan nodded, throwing his hat on the bed and getting out of his overcoat. “Bring some club soda. And plenty of ice.”
The boy took a five and winked. “Like some company? We got swell gals in town—new since you was here last. I know a little blonde that’s got everything. And I mean everything.”
Stan lay down on the other bed and lit a cigarette, folding his hands behind his head. “Brunette.”
“You’re the boss.”
He smoked when the boy had gone. In the ceiling cracks he could make out the profile of an old man. Then there was a tap on the door—the soda and ice. The boy scraped the collodion seal from the Scotch bottle.
Quiet again. In the empty, impersonal wilderness of the hotel Stan listened to noises coming up from the street. The whir of the elevator, stopping at his floor; footsteps soft in the corridor. He swung off the bed.
The girl was short and dark. She had on a tan polo coat and no hat, but there was an artificial gardenia pinned in her hair over one ear.
She came in, her nose and cheeks rosy from the cold, and said, “Howdy, sport! Annie sent me. Say—how’d ya know I drink Scotch?”
“I read minds.”
“Gee, you musta.” She poured two fingers’ into a glass and offered it to Stan, who shook his head.
“On the wagon. But don’t let that stop you.”
“Okay, sport. Here’s lead in your pencil.” When she finished it she poured herself another and then said, “You better give me the fin now before I forget it.”
Stan handed her a ten-dollar bill and she said, “Gee, thanks. Say, would you happen to have two fives?”
Silence. She broke it. “Lookit—radio in every room! That’s something new for this dump. Say, let’s listen to Charlie McCarthy. D’you mind?”
Stan was looking at her spindly legs. As she hung the polo coat carefully in the closet he saw that her breasts were tiny. She was wearing a Sloppy Joe sweater and a skirt. They used to look like whores. Now they look like college girls. They all want to look like college girls. Why don’t they go to college, then? They wouldn’t be any different from the others. You’d never notice them. Christ, what a crazy way to run a world.
She was having a good time listening to the radio gags, and the whisky had warmed her. Taking off her shoes, she curled her feet under her. Then motioning Stan to throw her a cigarette, she stripped off her stockings and warmed her feet with her hands, giving him a flash at the same time.
When the program was over she turned the radio down a little and stood up, stretching. She drew off her sweater carefully, so as not to disturb the gardenia, a
nd spread it over the chair back. She was thin, with sharp shoulder blades; her collar bones stood out starkly. When she dropped her skirt it was a little better but not too good. On one thigh, evenly spaced, were four bruises, the size of a big man’s fingers.
She stood smoking, wearing nothing but the imitation gardenia and Stan let his eyes go back to the old man’s face in the ceiling.
Tear-ass out of town, ride for hours, hotel, buy liquor, and for this. He sighed, stood up and slipped off his jacket and vest.
The girl was humming a tune to herself and now she did a soft-shoe dance step, her hands held up by her face, and spun around, then sang the chorus of the song that was coming over the loudspeaker. Her voice was husky and pleasant with power under control.
“You sing, too?” Stan asked dryly.
“Oh, sure. I only party to fill in. I sing with a band sometimes. I’m studying the voice.” She threw back her head and vocalized five notes. “Ah … ah … AH … ah … ah.”
The Great Stanton stopped with his shirt half off, staring. Then he seized the girl and threw her on the bed.
“Hey, look out, honey, not so fast! Hey, for Christ’s sake, be careful!”
He twisted his hand in her hair. The girl’s white, waxy face stared up at him, fearful and stretched tight. “Take it easy, honey. Don’t. Listen, Ed McLaren, the house dick, is a pal of mine. Now go easy— Ed’ll beat the hell out of any guy that did that.”
The radio kept on. “… bringing you the music of Phil Requete and his Swingstars direct from the Zodiac Room of the Hotel Teneriffe. And now our charming vocalist, Jessyca Fortune, steps up to the mike with an old-fashioned look in her eye, as she sings—and swings—that lovely old number of the ever popular Bobbie Burns, ‘Oh, Whistle and I’ll Come to You, My Lad.’ ”
Ice in the river, piled against the piers of boat clubs, a dark channel in the middle. And always the click of the rail joints underneath. North south east west—cold spring heat fall—love lust tire leave—wed fight leave hate—sleep wake eat sleep—child boy man corpse—touch kiss tongue breast—strip grip press jet—wash dress pay leave—north south east west …
Nightmare Alley Page 18
