“Maybe it’s just as well,” Joan said.
I stood up. “We’ll leave the front door open tonight. There’s a chance it might come back in.”
We left it open, but the next morning when we came downstairs the house was silent and empty. I knew at once the shoe was not there. I poked around, examining things. In the kitchen eggshells were strewn around the garbage pail. The shoe had come in during the night, but after helping itself it had left again.
I closed the front door and we stood silently, looking at each other. “He’ll be here any time,” I said. “I guess I better call the office and tell them I’ll be late.”
Joan touched the Animator. “So this is what did it. I wonder if it’ll ever happen again.”
We went outside and looked around hopefully for a time. Nothing stirred the bushes, nothing at all. “That’s that,” I said. I looked up. “Here comes a car, now.”
A dark Plymouth coasted up in front of the house. Two elderly men got out and came up the path toward us, studying us curiously.
“Where is Rupert?” one of them asked.
“Who? You mean Doc Labyrinth? I suppose he’ll be along any time.”
“Is it inside?” the man said. “I’m Porter, from the University. May I take a peek at it?”
“You’d better wait,” I said unhappily. “Wait until the Doc is here.”
Two more cars pulled up. More old men got out and started up the walk, murmuring and talking together. “Where’s the Animator?” one asked me, a codger with bushy whiskers. “Young man, direct us to the exhibit.”
“The exhibit is inside,” I said. “If you want to see the Animator, go on in.”
They crowded inside. Joan and I followed them. They were standing around the table, studying the square box, the Dutch oven, talking excitedly.
“This is it!” Porter said. “The Principle of Sufficient Irritation will go down in—”
“Nonsense,” another said. “It’s absurd. I want to see this hat, or shoe, or whatever it is.”
“You’ll see it,” Porter said. “Rupert knows what he’s doing. You can count on that.”
They fell into controversy, quoting authorities and citing dates and places. More cars were arriving, and some of them were press cars.
“Oh, God,” I said. “This will be the end of him.”
“Well, he’ll just have to tell them what happened,” Joan said. “About its getting away.”
“We’re going to, not him. We let the thing go.”
“I had nothing to do with it. I never liked that pair from the start. Don’t you remember, I wanted you to get those ox-blood ones?”
I ignored her. More and more old men were assembling on the lawn, standing around talking and discussing. All at once I saw Labyrinth’s little blue Ford pull up, and my heart sank. He had come, he was here, and in a minute we would have to tell him.
“I can’t face him,” I said to Joan. “Let’s slip out the back way.”
At the sight of Doc Labyrinth all the scientists began streaming out of the house, surrounding him in a circle. Joan and I looked at each other. The house was deserted, except for the two of us. I closed the front door. Sounds of talk filtered through the windows; Labyrinth was expounding the Principle of Sufficient Irritation. In a moment he would come inside and demand the shoe.
“Well, it was his own fault for leaving it,” Joan said. She picked up a magazine and thumbed through it.
Doc Labyrinth waved at me through the window. His old face was wreathed with smiles. I waved back halfheartedly. After a while I sat down beside Joan.
Time passed. I stared down at the floor. What was there to do? Nothing but wait, wait for the Doc to come triumphantly into the house, surrounded by scientists, learned men, reporters, historians, demanding the proof of his theory, the shoe. On my old shoe rested Labyrinth’s whole life, the proof of his Principle, of the Animator, of everything.
And the damn shoe was gone, outside someplace!
“It won’t be long now,” I said.
We waited, without speaking. After a time I noticed a peculiar thing. The talk outside had died away. I listened, but I heard nothing.
“Well?” I said. “Why don’t they come in?”
The silence continued. What was going on? I stood up and went to the front door. I opened it and looked out.
“What’s the matter?” Joan said. “Can you see?”
“No,” I said. “I don’t get it.” They were all standing silently, staring down at something, none of them speaking. I was puzzled. I could not make sense out of it. “What’s happening?” I said.
“Let’s go and look.” Joan and I went slowly down the steps, onto the lawn. We pushed through the row of old men and made our way to the front.
“Good Lord,” I said. “Good Lord.”
Crossing the lawn was a strange little procession, making its way through the grass. Two shoes, my old brown shoe, and just ahead of it, leading the way, another shoe, a tiny white high-heeled slipper. I stared at it. I had seen it someplace before.
“That’s mine!” Joan cried. Everyone looked at her. “That belongs to me! My party shoes—”
“Not any more,” Labyrinth said. His old face was pale with emotion. “It is beyond us all, forever.”
“Amazing,” one of the learned men said. “Look at them. Observe the female. Look at what she is doing.”
The little white shoe was keeping carefully ahead of my old shoe, a few inches away, leading him coyly on. As my old shoe approached she backed away, moving in a half circle. The two shoes stopped for a moment, regarding each other. Then, all at once, my old shoe began to hop up and down, first on his heel, then on his toe. Solemnly, with great dignity, the shoe danced around her, until he reached his starting point.
The little white shoe hopped once, and then she began again to move away, slowly, hesitantly, letting my shoe almost catch up to her before she went on.
“This implies a developed sense of mores,” an old gentleman said. “Perhaps even a racial unconscious. The shoes are following a rigid pattern of ritual, probably laid down centuries—”
“Labyrinth, what does this mean?” Porter said. “Explain it to us.”
“So that’s what it was,” I murmured. “While we were away the shoe got her out of the closet and used the Animator on her. I knew something was watching me, that night. She was still in the house.”
“That’s what he turned on the Animator for,” Joan said. She sniffed. “I’m not sure I think much of it.”
The two shoes had almost reached the hedge, the white slipper still just beyond the laces of the brown shoe. Labyrinth moved toward them.
“So, gentlemen, you can see that I did not exaggerate. This is the greatest moment in science, the creation of a new race. Perhaps, when mankind has fallen into ruin, society destroyed, this new life form—”
He started to reach for the shoes, but at that moment the lady shoe disappeared into the hedge, backing into the obscurity of the foliage. With one bound the brown shoe popped in after her. There was a rustling, then silence.
“I’m going indoors,” Joan said, walking away.
“Gentlemen,” Labyrinth said, his face a little red, “this is incredible. We are witnessing one of the most profound and far-reaching moments of science.”
“Well, almost witnessing,” I said.
The Builder
“E.J. Elwood!” Liz said anxiously. “You aren’t listening to anything we’re saying. And you’re not eating a bit. What in the world is the matter with you? Sometimes I just can’t understand you.”
For a long time there was no response. Ernest Elwood continued to stare past them, staring out the window at the semi-darkness beyond, as if hearing something they did not hear. At last he sighed, drawing himself up in his chair, almost as if he were going to say something. But then his elbow knocked against his coffee cup and he turned instead to steady the cup, wiping spilled brown coffee from its side.
“Sorry,” he murmured. “What were you saying?”
“Eat, dear,” his wife said. She glanced at the two boys as she spoke to see if they had stopped eating also. “You know, I go to a great deal of trouble to fix your food.” Bob, the older boy, was going right ahead, cutting his liver and bacon carefully into bits. But sure enough, little Toddy had put down his knife and fork as soon as E.J. had, and now he, too, was sitting silently, staring down at his plate.
“See?” Liz said. “You’re not setting a very good example for the boys. Eat up your food. It’s getting cold. You don’t want to eat cold liver, do you? There’s nothing worse than liver when it gets cold and the fat all over the bacon hardens. It’s harder to digest cold fat than anything else in the world. Especially lamb fat. They say a lot of people can’t eat lamb fat at all. Dear, please eat.”
Elwood nodded. He lifted his fork and spooned up some peas and potatoes, carrying them to his mouth. Little Toddy did the same, gravely and seriously, a small edition of his father.
“Say,” Bob said. “We had an atomic bomb drill at school today. We lay under the desks.”
“Is that right?” Liz said.
“But Mr. Pearson our science teacher says that if they drop a bomb on us the whole town’ll be demolished, so I can’t see what good getting under the desk will do. I think they ought to realize what advances science has made. There are bombs now that’ll destroy miles, leaving nothing standing.”
“You sure know a lot,” Toddy muttered.
“Oh, shut up.”
“Boys,” Liz said.
“It’s true,” Bob said earnestly. “A fellow I know is in the Marine Corps Reserve and he says they have new weapons that will destroy wheat crops and poison water supplies. It’s some kind of crystals.”
“Heavens,” Liz said.
“They didn’t have things like that in the last war. Atomic development came almost at the end without there really being an opportunity to make use of it on a full scale.” Bob turned to his father. “Dad, isn’t that true? I’ll bet when you were in the Army you didn’t have any of the fully atomic—”
Elwood threw down his fork. He pushed his chair back and stood up. Liz stared up in astonishment at him, her cup half raised. Bob’s mouth hung open, his sentence unfinished. Little Toddy said nothing.
“Dear, what’s the matter?” Liz said.
“I’ll see you later.”
They gazed after him in amazement as he walked away from the table, out of the dining-room. They heard him go into the kitchen and pull open the back door. A moment later the back door slammed behind him.
“He went out in the back yard,” Bob said. “Mom, was he always like this? Why does he act so funny? It isn’t some kind of war psychosis he got in the Philippines, is it? In the First World War they called it shell shock, but now they know it’s a form of war psychosis. Is it something like that?”
“Eat your food,” Liz said, red spots of anger burning in her cheeks. She shook her head. “Darn that man. I just can’t imagine—”
The boys ate their food.
It was dark out in the back yard. The sun had set and the air was cool and thin, filled with dancing specks of night insects. In the next yard Joe Hunt was working, raking leaves from under his cherry tree. He nodded to Elwood.
Elwood walked slowly down the path, across the yard towards the garage. He stopped, his hands in his pockets. By the garage something immense and white loomed up, a vast pale shape in the evening gloom. As he stood gazing at it a kind of warmth began to glow inside him. It was a strange warmth, something like pride, a little pleasure mixed in, and—and excitement. Looking at the boat always made him excited. Even when he was first starting on it he had felt the sudden race of his heart, the shaking of his hands, sweat on his face.
His boat. He grinned, walking closer. He reached up and thumped the solid side. What a fine boat it was, and coming along damn well. Almost done. A lot of work had gone into that, a lot of work and time. Afternoons off from work, Sundays, and even sometimes early in the morning before work.
That was best, early in the morning, with the bright sun shining down and the air good-smelling and fresh, and everything wet and sparkling. He liked that time best of all, and there was no one else up to bother him and ask him questions. He thumped the solid side again. A lot of work and material, all right. Lumber and nails, sawing and hammering and bending. Of course, Toddy had helped him. He certainly couldn’t have done it alone; no doubt of that. If Toddy hadn’t drawn the lines on the board and—
“Hey,” Joe Hunt said.
Elwood started, turning. Joe was leaning on the fence, looking at him. “Sorry,” Elwood said. “What did you say?”
“Your mind was a million miles away,” Hunt said. He took a puff on his cigar. “Nice night.”
“Yes.”
“That’s some boat you got there, Elwood.”
“Thanks,” Elwood murmured. He walked away from it, back towards the house. “Goodnight, Joe.”
“How long is it you’ve been working on that boat?” Hunt reflected. “Seems like about a year in all, doesn’t it? About twelve months. You sure put a lot of time and effort into it. Seems like every time I see you you’re carting lumber back here and sawing and hammering away.”
Elwood nodded, moving towards the back door.
“You even got your kids working. At least, the little tyke. Yes, it’s quite a boat.” Hunt paused. “You sure must be going to go quite a way with it, by the size of it. Now just exactly where was it you told me you’re going? I forget.”
There was silence.
“I can’t hear you, Elwood,” Hunt said. “Speak up. A boat that big, you must be—”
“Layoff.”
Hunt laughed easily. “What’s the matter, Elwood? I’m just having a little harmless fun, pulling your leg. But seriously, where are you going with that? You going to drag it down to the beach and float it? I know a guy has a little sail-boat he fits on to a trailer cart, hooks it up to his car. He drives down to the yacht harbor every week or so. But my God, you can’t get that big thing on a trailer. You know, I heard about a guy built a boat in his cellar. Well, he got done and you know what he discovered? He discovered that the boat was so big when he tried to get it out the door—”
Liz Elwood came to the back door, snapping on the kitchen light and pushing the door open. She stepped out on to the grass, her arms folded.
“Good evening, Mrs. Elwood,” Hunt said, touching his hat. “Sure a nice night.”
“Good evening.” Liz turned to E.J. “For heaven’s sake, are you going to come in?” Her voice was low and hard.
“Sure.” Elwood reached out listlessly for the door. “I’m coming in. Goodnight, Joe.”
“Goodnight,” Hunt said. He watched the two of them go inside. The door closed, the light went off. Hunt shook his head. “Funny guy,” he murmured. “Getting funnier all the time. Like he’s in a different world. Him and his boat!”
He went indoors.
“She was just eighteen,” Jack Fredericks said, “but she sure knew what it was all about.”
“Those southern girls are that way,” Charlie said. “It’s like fruit, nice soft, ripe, slightly damp fruit.”
“There’s a passage in Hemingway like that,” Ann Pike said. “I can’t remember what it’s from. He compares a—”
“But the way they talk,” Charlie said. “Who can stand the way those southern girls talk?”
“What’s the matter with the way they talk?” Jack demanded. “They talk different, but you get used to it.”
“Why can’t they talk right?”
“What do you mean?”
“They talk like—colored people.”
“It’s because they all come from the same region,” Ann said.
“Are you saying this girl was colored?” Jack said.
“No, of course not. Finish your pie.” Charlie looked at his wristwatch. “Almost one. We have to be getting on back to the office
.”
“I’m not finished eating,” Jack said. “Hold on!”
“You know, there’s a lot of colored people moving into my area,” Ann said. “There’s a real estate sign up on a house about a block from me. ‘All races welcomed.’ I almost fell over dead when I saw it.”
“What did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything. What can we do?”
“You know, if you work for the Government they can put a colored man or a Chinese next to you,” Jack said, “and you can’t do anything about it.”
“Except quit.”
“It interferes with your right to work,” Charlie said. “How can you work like that? Answer me.”
“There’s too many pinks in the Government,” Jack said. “That’s how they got that, about hiring people for Government jobs without looking to see what race they belong to. During WPA days, when Harry Hopkins was in.”
“You know where Harry Hopkins was born?” Ann said. “He was born in Russia.”
“That was Sidney Hillman,” Jack said.
“It’s all the same,” Charlie said. “They all ought to be sent back there.”
Ann looked curiously at Ernest Elwood. He was sitting quietly, reading his newspaper, not saying anything. The cafeteria was alive with movement and noise. Everyone was eating and talking, coming and going, back and forth.
“E.J., are you all right?” Ann said.
“Yes.”
“He’s reading about the White Sox,” Charlie said. “He has that intent look. Say, you know, I took my kids to the game the other night, and—”
“Come on,” Jack said, standing up. “We have to get back.”
They all rose. Elwood folded his newspaper up silently, putting it into his pocket.
“Say, you’re not talking much,” Charlie said to him as they went up the aisle. Elwood glanced up.
“Sorry.”
“I’ve been meaning to ask you something. Do you want to come over Saturday night for a little game? You haven’t played with us for a hell of a long time.”
“Don’t ask him,” Jack said, paying for his meal at the cash register. “He always wants to play queer games like deuces wild, baseball, spit in the ocean—”
The Short Happy Life of the Brown Oxford and Other Classic Stories tcsopkd-1 Page 35
