All the Bells on Earth

by James P. Blaylock

  “Is he old?”

  “Sort of. I mean …”

  “He’s funny. He looks like that head.”

  “What head?”

  “That cabbage head.”

  “What cabbage head?” Walt asked.

  “That one. That fell on the floor.”

  Walt nodded. “But did you like the story?”

  “Yes.” She pulled the covers up to her chin. Eddie was sound asleep. “But I don’t like that Gooberhead man.”

  “I don’t either,” Walt said. “He’s a dirty pig. Go to sleep now.”

  “G’night,” she said, turning over and snuggling down into the blankets.

  He kissed her on the cheek, then eased Eddie down into bed, covered him up, and tiptoed out through the door, leaving the dining-room light on as a night light.

  Upstairs, Ivy lay in bed. She still wore her glasses, but her book had fallen out of her hand, and she was clearly asleep. Walt set the book on the nightstand and eased her glasses off. She murmured something and slid down under the covers. He kissed her on the cheek, wondering vaguely whether it was still a husband’s right to wake his wife up under circumstances like this, or if the politics of marriage had changed along with everything else. He decided to cut his losses. There would be other nights.

  Somehow he wasn’t sleepy yet, and he turned around and went back downstairs, where he switched on the Christmas tree lights. The room smelled strongly of pine. He sat down on the couch, watching the bubblers and the whirligigs come to life. Ivy had started buying old-fashioned-looking painted glass ornaments—Santa Clauses, grinning moons, clowns, comical dogs. There was a silver baby’s head as big as his fist, with three different faces on it, each of the faces vaguely astonished, as if all of them had just that moment seen something wonderful and unlikely. He searched the baby head out now, finding it finally among a cluster of glass icicles, and it occurred to him that it was his favorite ornament because it was ridiculous, because it made the least sense.

  He loved all of it, though, the whole thing together—the blinking lights shining through the icicles, the bubbles rising in their glass tubes, the colored balls glowing like tiny planets, the gaudily painted figures—and it seemed to him now, late in the evening, as if the tree signified all the light and color and magic in creation.

  He laid his head back against the cushion. I’ll just shut my eyes for a moment, he thought, and then get up and go to bed. And for a brief time, he could see the colored lights winking on and off even though his eyes were closed, and he wished Ivy were downstairs, too, sitting with him on the couch.

  PART TWO

  Doubt and Decision

  A man was meant to be doubtful about himself, but undoubting about the truth.

  G. K. Chesterton

  Orthodoxy

  The wood was green, and at first showed no disposition to blaze. It smoked furiously. Smoke, thought I, always goes before blaze; and so does doubt go before decision.

  Andrew Marvell

  Reveries of a Bachelor

  24

  “WHAT DO YOU make of them?”

  Father Mahoney held one of the jars in his hand. It was the jar with the eyelid. He shook his head. “I don’t know. You say you heard something when you took the lid off?”

  “A human cry. Just as sure as I’m standing here now.”

  “Could have been the wind?”

  “Could have been. I don’t happen to think so.”

  “What’s your take on it, then?”

  “I surely don’t know. I don’t mean to be morbid, but I wonder if when they take to digging up LeRoy’s acreage they might not find worse things.”

  Mahoney was silent.

  “I don’t mean to dump these on your doorstep like a couple of orphan babies, but to my mind there’s no denying that we’re both involved in something here.” He gestured around—at the boarded-up, stained-glass windows, the washed-down walls with the ghosts of filthy words still visible, waiting for a second coat of paint. “LeRoy came after your church. Another one of them got the bells at St. Anthony’s and killed Simms. They aren’t going away. Push is coming to shove. Now, we’ve had our differences in the past, you being a Catholic and all, but I’ve always known you were the real McCoy, and I hope I never let on any different about myself.”

  “No, sir,” Mahoney said. “I’ve admired your work here, Protestant or no Protestant.” Mahoney winked at him.

  Bentley stood silently for a moment, as if he were working something out in his head. “I’m going to tell you a few things, then. And afterward you can decide whether you want to stand by what you just said, or amend it.”

  The priest nodded. Then very seriously he said, “Would you prefer the confessional?”

  “Damn it!” Bentley shouted. “This isn’t funny. I’m not confessing something. I’m telling you what happened.”

  “Sorry,” Mahoney said. “Honestly, I am sorry. I couldn’t help myself. Go on with your story.”

  “All right,” Bentley said. “I’ll make it plain. For a long time I led what you’d call a double life, and what I did in that other life was shameful.”

  “All of us have done shameful …”

  “I’m not talking about that. What I did was worse. Murray LeRoy knew me, or thought he did, as a diabolical priest named Flanagan.”

  “Priest?”

  “Minister, then. It doesn’t matter which. Anyway, I introduced LeRoy and another man, George Nelson, to the notion of selling their immortal souls, literally speaking. You know who Nelson is—the lawyer down on the Plaza who found LeRoy burning to death in the alley. Together they conscripted another man, Robert Argyle, who had fallen on hard times after some kind of trouble with the authorities. Argyle had certain … business connections, let us say, in the East. There were certain things he could acquire for them. Anyway, with my help, the three of them sold their souls to the Devil.” He paused, waiting for Mahoney to respond.

  “Sold them?”

  “That’s right. For a price. A good one, too. I didn’t really believe it myself at the time, just as you don’t quite believe it now. I can see that much in your face.”

  “You’re telling me they thought they’d sold their souls? Like Faust? Was there a piece of paper? Something signed?”

  “Well, no, not signed exactly. As a signature they bit down hard on a bar napkin and rubbed the indentation with charcoal. Along with that they gave me … tokens. I didn’t ask for them, mind you. This was arranged by a third party, so to speak, a man named Obermeyer, who lives out in Santa Ana. Nelson’s token was a lock of hair. From Murray LeRoy it was a severed fingertip. He was a sadomasochist of the worst type. Utter degenerate. Argyle offered a little vial of blood. These objects arrived in common household canning jars. And now you know why I don’t like the look of these things here.” He pointed at the jars on the table.

  “I don’t like them much myself,” Mahoney said.

  “I can see that you don’t. And quit looking at me over the top of your spectacles like that. You don’t know the half of it yet. Nelson and Leroy were already involved in spiritualism, dabbling in the occult, some of it pretty nasty. I had known LeRoy for years, and I didn’t like him. His conscience, if he ever had one, had rotted. George Nelson was a complete idiot. The only thing he had going for him twenty years ago was that he knew he was a small-timer. He had a pitiful little divorce practice. He had come to know his own prospects, and he didn’t like them a bit. As for Argyle, heaven knows what he would have come to without stumbling into this pit these other two dug for him. And me too, I guess. That’s what I’m trying to say here. I worked on it myself, like a steamshovel.

  “Anyway, the whole thing was simple. This man Obermeyer hinted around that he could set up this contract business for a fee, a commission. None of these men were wealthy at the time, but then the initial fee wasn’t all that high, either. It was later, if they were satisfied, that they would pay me the real money. Of course I never expected to see it
. This whole thing was a joke. I was going to pick the Devil’s pocket and make a few dollars for the Church.”

  “Well, pardon me if I’m a little skeptical about that last part,” Mahoney said.

  “What should I have done with the money, bought a Cadillac?”

  “Perhaps you shouldn’t have taken it at all.”

  “Then someone else would have. That’s capitalism, isn’t it? Somebody pays money out, somebody else gathers it in. I did the gathering that day.”

  “I think I see. What you’re telling me is that you sold your own soul to gain … what? Not the world. You were above that. What you wanted was to do good works—Christian charity. You saw yourself as a sort of Robin Hood of the Church.”

  “Well,” Bentley said. “That gets close to it. I suppose I did. It’s vanity, I know. But if I did sell my soul, by God I didn’t sell it for my own gain.”

  “I believe you. But you don’t sound happy with it anyway.”

  “Of course I don’t sound happy with it.”

  “Then what’s eating you?”

  “Well, it didn’t end there. The three of them prospered, and I didn’t, so I squeezed them a little bit, now and then, and kept the con alive. I always meant to quit, but then the lunch van would break down or the plumbing would back up, and I’d have my man call up Argyle or LeRoy and ask for an ‘offering.’ Heaven help me, that’s how I phrased it. Argyle got richest, of course, so I squeezed him the hardest. And it worked, mind you, because they believed in me. And worse than that, they were afraid of me. How do you like that? Shameful, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose it is,” the priest said.

  “Here’s the bad thing: all three of these men got what they wanted. I conned them, you see, and yet it never looked like a con. To the contrary, they were satisfied customers. A few years pass, and what happens? George Nelson carves out a legal empire. He goes out to D.C. to lobby senators and does who-knows-what kind of damage. His law firm opens branch offices all across the country. There’s even a law school named after him. After eighteen years he comes back home to take it easy, and he buys a big house in Panorama Heights. And Argyle? He’s got the Midas touch. Whatever he sets his hand to, it returns to him tenfold. Half of it’s fraudulent, outright criminal, but no one pays any attention any more, despite his past. It’s as if he’s got protection of some kind. LeRoy? Utterly debased. Real estate millions spent on filthy pursuits, right here in the middle of town. Life going on roundabout him like he’s invisible.”

  “Take some comfort in the fact that you didn’t know,” Mahoney said. “What did you think you were doing? Ask yourself that. I haven’t got any grievance against guilt, but I insist that it be applied accurately.”

  “No, there’s no comfort in it, I assure you. You know why? Because I saw the truth. Here’s the clincher: There hadn’t been any con. They intended to give themselves up to the Devil, and I walked in and paved the way. I pretended to be some kind of satanic … minister, and by heaven I was that thing. There is no king’s X when you’re dealing in souls. That’s what I found out. I did the wrong thing, and I did it laughing and smiling. I saw something pretty clearly then. I saw that all of us, LeRoy and Nelson and Argyle and me too, all of us had the same ally—the Father of Lies. I cut it off then. I prayed that was the end of it.”

  “Then now’s the time to face the Devil down.”

  “That’s what I’m telling you. That’s why I came here. I’ve botched it. I can’t do it alone. I’m not strong enough. A few days ago Argyle called me on the phone, looking to talk to Flanagan again. He wanted to buy his way free, just like he’d bought his way in all those years ago.”

  “And what did you tell him? The truth?”

  Bentley shook his head. “It didn’t do any good. He offered me a hundred thousand dollars.”

  Mahoney slumped backward in his chair, looked down his spectacles, and whistled softly.

  “Just like that. Easy money. I told myself that the bastard was a dead man anyway. The Devil doesn’t care how many checks Argyle writes out, or who he writes them to. Take the money and run before the man goes down the well, I thought—the damage is already done.”

  “You didn’t cash the check?”

  “No, I didn’t. But I took the money in weakness, and I’m a little afraid that …” He shrugged.

  “Well,” Mahoney said, picking up one of the jars. “You’ve got my help. I’m in. And with the help of God we’ll prevail, too.” He picked up one of the jars and peered into it. “You’ve already opened one of these things. Now I will. Excuse me if I’m a little doubtful, but I want to know what we’re up against.”

  Before Bentley could protest he twisted the lid off the jar. There was the sound of a human cry, and then a fluttering sound, as if a bird had gotten into the church and lost itself among the rafters. Bentley felt a lightness in his throat that made him want to swallow. And, as if a wind were blowing straight through him, he was suffused with remorse and fear and regret and a dozen unnameable sensations that filled him utterly, then evaporated on the instant. Abruptly the fluttering was gone, the church was quiet, and he could hear the sound of the rain out on the street.

  “Sorry,” Mahoney whispered.

  “Well, now you know.”

  Although what either of them knew, Bentley still couldn’t say.

  25

  IT WAS NEARLY midnight when the phone rang. Walt woke up instantly, lurching across the bed and snatching up the receiver before Ivy could get to it. He was certain it was Argyle, upping the stakes, maybe the enormous postal inspector….

  But the voice on the other end didn’t belong to Argyle, or to the inspector either. It was vaguely familiar. “Who is this?” Walt asked.

  “This is Jack, Walt. Your brother-in-law.”

  “Jack!” Walt sat up in bed, motioning at Ivy, who was awake now, looking at him curiously. “How the hell are you?”

  “What in God’s name is going on with Darla and the kids? She say anything to Ivy about taking off or something? I’ve been trying to get hold of her since this afternoon. The preschool tells me Ivy picked up the kids.”

  Walt could hear noises in the background—someone talking, laughter, what sounded like glasses or bottles clinking. Jack was in a bar. He didn’t sound drunk, not toasted anyway. Walt covered the phone and whispered the question to Ivy.

  “Tell him the truth about Darla,” she said. “We can’t hide it from him. No use starting out with lies. Tell him to relax about the kids. We’ll think of something.”

  “Here’s the deal,” Walt said, into the phone now. “Ivy tells me that Darla flew back east, to Ann Arbor. You know, to stay with the folks for a little while.”

  “Why the hell didn’t she tell me?”

  “She didn’t tell you?”

  “Not a goddamned word. When the hell was this?”

  “Today, I guess. She called up Ivy to take over the kids for a few days. She didn’t leave you any kind of note, maybe?”

  “Not word one. And what are you talking about here? Nora and Eddie didn’t go with her? They’re over at your place?”

  “No. Yeah. They’re downstairs, asleep. Hell, I thought you knew all about this. Ivy told Darla that the kids could stay here for a few days, until Darla got herself together—whatever she’s up to. I think she misses her folks, to tell you the truth, what with Christmas coming up and all. They aren’t getting any younger.”

  There was a muffled silence, and Walt could hear Jack mumbling to someone. A woman giggled, and then Jack snickered and said something else to her. Walt nearly hung up the phone.

  “So what about the kids?” Jack said. “What the hell am I supposed to do with the kids while she’s back east? I’ve got a damned job. She apparently didn’t think about that.”

  Walt took a deep breath. Starting something now was the worst thing he could do. He’d have Jack over here in a drunken rage, pounding on the door. “That’s just it,” Walt said to him cheerfully. “That’s what I
’m saying. We invited the kids for a visit. It’s fine by us, Jack. We’ve been talking about having the kids over for what?—a year? Now’s just about perfect. I’m working out of the house. Jinx and Henry are here for the winter. And you know Jinx, she’s crazy about both of them.”

  “I don’t know,” Jack said. “What did … ? Shit. Darla told me nothing about this.”

  “Well … heck. I don’t know what to tell you about that. But we were looking forward to having the kids around for a week or so. Two weeks if we can talk you out of them. Just between you and me, man, I think Ivy’s got some kind of female thing about this, you know what I mean? She’s been riding the kid bandwagon these days. It’s some kind of maternal thing—like a nesting instinct.” He grinned at Ivy, who scowled at him and narrowed her eyes. “Anyway, she had this all worked out with Darla.”

  “Yeah, okay,” Jack said. “Everybody had the whole thing worked out except their damned father.”

  Stepfather, Walt thought. The man who’s down at the Dewdrop Inn with his part-time squeeze. “Well, just don’t worry about the kids, Jack. Jinx has got them both doing the damned dishes. And she’s got some idea of taking them out to Prentice Park tomorrow, to the zoo, if this rain lets up.”

  “Well, hell,” Jack said. “I guess there’s no harm. You sure you want the two of them?”

  “Hell, yes. Like I said, Ivy’s made all kinds of plans.”

  “Okay, then. I guess so. Sounds like everything’s copacetic. Tell the kids I’ll give them a call tomorrow—tomorrow night, I guess. Busy day tomorrow.”

  “I’ll tell them,” Walt said. “You want me to wake ’em up right now and …”

  “No,” Jack said hastily. “No need for that. I’ll get back with you after I talk to Darla.”

  “Good. You take it easy.”

  “I will,” Jack said. “You too.”

  He hung up then, and Walt did too, breathing a heavy sigh of relief.

  “Drunk?” Ivy asked.

  “Not stinking. He’s ticked off about Darla going back east without his permission, but I don’t think he gives a damn about the kids being over here. It gives him a clear week or two.”