All the Bells on Earth

by James P. Blaylock

  “Send her another thousand. Five thousand. And the same in trust for the girl. And call George Mifflin in Manila. Tell him to keep an eye on both of them.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “That’s what I say. What kind of ads have we got?”

  “Twenty-four so far, all in slick magazines. Save the starving orphans—the usual deal. Pathetic enough to make you cry. It’ll draw like rotten meat. Beats the hell out of the legitimate ads, I can tell you that.”

  “Good. That’s it?” He could hear the creaking again, as if there were ghost children on the swings outside, and he realized that it was far hotter in the room than it should be. There was rain pattering against the windows now. He loosened his tie and unbuttoned his shirt, looking around uneasily. He could swear something was here, in the room, now.

  Three more jars in the drawer.

  “One more thing quick,” the man said. “Benson’s got a dynamite idea for an estate liquidation ploy. He wants me to run it past you.”

  “Shoot.” Argyle looked at the desktop, working hard to listen. There was static on the phone, and the voice seemed to come from a long way away, as if the man were speaking on a string-and-can phone from some other room.

  “Basically you donate your dead parents’ estate,” he was saying, “especially properties. The money goes—get this—to buy wilderness land. We run up a color brochure showing ‘holdings in trust’—so many million acres of northwest wilderness. Pictures of moose, buffalo, long article about the threat to the national parks system, mining, grazing, sale of public lands….”

  Argyle lost track of what the man was saying. He loosened his tie and unbuttoned his shirt at his neck. His mouth was dry and his scalp itched, and he felt a vast pressure rising up within him, as if in another forty seconds he would simply explode. He tried to ignore it.

  “We punch all the rich liberal buttons,” the man said, “tap all the eco-fears, if you follow me. Guarantee your children’s natural birthright into perpetuity and get a hell of a big tax write-off too. We do the whole scam Ponzi-style. Keep enough liquid income to cover ourselves in case we actually need to buy a little property. How fast can these people die, anyway? And we can show the inheritors the same piece of land over and over. It’s foolproof. You got anything to add?”

  “Add? I’d work Indians into it. That’s always good. Picture of some old dead chief.

  “Of course. We might risk the life insurance angle, too. That works like crazy for nursing homes and mausoleums; there’s no reason it won’t work for us….”

  “Right,” Argyle said hurriedly. The room seemed to shake now, as if from heavy footfalls. The phone receiver thrummed in his hand. “That’s fine. Save the details for some other time.”

  “All right. Now, on the 900 numbers. The crystal readings never got off the blocks. Standard psychic stuff is still the bread and butter. Soft porn’s holding its own. That kind of thing’s established, you know, but this fad stuff … What I’m saying is if it’s current, then we’ve got to get on top of it quicker, get the product out there….” The man’s voice droned on, running down accounts. “… breakfast cereal,” he said. “… computerized fortune cookie messages, gardening tips, dating service, Zantar the Psychic …”

  “What?” Argyle was lost, baffled. His mind spun. He was hot, feverish. Was the man talking gibberish? “Wait.” He croaked the word out, laying the phone down without punching the hold button. He put his hands to his ears, trying to press out the rushing and creaking, which had sprung up again as if someone had put a cassette tape in the stereo. The sensation of being on view increased by the moment, and he looked around wildly, at the windows, at the lamp-lit playground equipment beyond, at the murky, shadowed corners of the office. He felt shrunken, tiny, like a specimen insect in a glass jar. The very air vibrated, and he was seized with panic, with the wild desire to run. Did he hear a bell tolling?

  The windows ran with rainwater, and what had sounded like the rush of wind had evened into the unmistakable exhalation of heavy breathing. He felt a stirring against the back of his neck, as if someone stood very close behind him now, whispering softly.

  He didn’t dare turn around, but reached into the drawer again, turning the lid from one of the jars. There was a fleeting cry, swallowed immediately in the noise and the shaking. He opened another, and the spirit fled, the presence in the room undiminished, ravenous.

  He was hot, burning up inside, his very cells on fire. Slowly he stood up, desperate simply to leave, to get out into the rain and the wind. He took a careful step toward the door. His shoulders hunched forward, retracting from the presence at his back. He knew damned well who it was. What it was. There was a stench of something burning, something sulphurous, and tendrils of smoke curled up from the carpet beneath his feet. With a wild shriek he lurched forward and grabbed the doorknob, which throbbed like a live thing. He slammed against the door with his shoulder, whimpering and shaking with terror. The door held. He was trapped!

  Something wet slithered against his neck like the tongue of a lizard, and he screamed out loud, taking the knob in both hands and twisting it, falling to his knees on the carpet, his eyes screwed shut….

  And the door swung inward, bumping gently against his knee. He opened his eyes. Abruptly the noises ceased, the presence in the room evaporated like steam. He heard the sound of rain against the window again. God almighty! He’d been out of his mind with fear, pushing on the door instead of pulling!

  He realized then that the hallway outside the office door was full of children and their mothers, and he quickly pushed the door shut again. He took a long, shuddering breath and stood up, and right then he felt the wet fabric of his pants against the skin of his legs. He looked down, horrified. He’d wet himself in his terror.

  The phone receiver still lay on the table, where he’d dropped it. His hands shook so badly that he could barely pick it up. “You still there?”

  “Yeah,” the man said. “Everything all right over there?”

  “Fine,” Argyle said, his voice husky. “There’s nothing wrong here. The storm’s apparently got the phones all screwed up. Listen, you keep up the good work. I’ve got a meeting.”

  “Good enough. I’ll have Don send over a copy of the Sensible Investor prospectus. Anything else?”

  The window lit up just then, and almost at the same time there was a crack of thunder that shook the walls.

  “No,” Argyle said. He hung up the telephone and picked up his coat from the back of the chair. Holding it in front of his crotch, he stepped out of the door and into the hallway, where, for some unholy reason, Walt Stebbins sat in a chair by the receptionist’s desk, filling out papers.

  30

  IVY AND JINX left at seven-thirty, heading down to Watson’s for breakfast, and Henry sneaked away down the sidewalk not five minutes later without saying a word to Walt, who felt as if he were surrounded by plots. Everybody had some kind of iron in the fire this morning—capitalism, hula-hula women, crayon graffiti—and he was left with the mundane chores. At eight he had to haul the kids over to the preschool and get them signed up, whatever that entailed, then stop at the grocery store on the way to the Old Hill Mailbox, where he’d ship the morning’s UPS packages.

  It had been a mistake to tell Ivy about having seen Argyle out driving around the neighborhood at the time of the vandalism. She had accused him outright of jealousy. Jealousy! Argyle’s vandalizing the house had been beyond her understanding, but it wasn’t beyond Walt’s—although, clearly, what he understood he couldn’t tell her.

  The television was going in the house, and he could hear the sound of a rinky-dink cartoon jingle. The melody was vaguely familiar—from ages ago. A wave of nostalgia struck him, and he stopped to listen, laying the tape dispenser on the bench. It was Spunky and Tadpole! Great God almighty, he thought, in this day and age? Full of a sudden curious joy, he went out through the garage door and looked in at the window. Nora and Eddie sprawled on the floor in
that weird rubber-legged way kids have, half sitting and half kneeling. They stared fixedly at the screen, Nora’s head bobbing time to the music. Walt heard her laugh out loud and point; it was Tadpole, all right, just then coming along the road, carrying a fishing pole with a bigheaded fish on it. The fish was apparently dead, because his eyes were X’d out.

  Walt abruptly recalled last night’s adventure in the kitchen—Nora and Eddie setting out to make bubble castles in the sink. Why the hell had he broken it up so quickly and sent them to bed? Only one damned reason: monkey business; that’s what Ivy had called it. Well, fat lot of good it had done anybody. He wished now that he had let the kids have a few minutes with the bubbles. Ten minutes would have seemed an eternity to them, nothing to him.

  He could remember the long cartoon mornings when he was that age: the cold cereal, television programs stacked end to end like books on a shelf, the clock on the wall nearly falling asleep…. It was one of the wild, doomed luxuries of childhood. Say what you want, but Spunky and Tadpole were vital in a way that was as huge as the sky, and so were bubbles in the sink.

  He realized now that Nora was watching him through the window, making her rabbit face, and he waved at her before turning around and hurrying back into the garage, where he grabbed one of the plastic bags full of miniature furniture, and headed out toward the avocado tree, the sun shining in the east. The air was sharp and clear, and he sucked in a big lungful as he peeked under the flowerpot. The daddy longlegs was crouched against the roof. There was a ragged web spun against the back wall with a couple of tiny flies already wound up in it, waiting to be sucked dry. One of the trapped flies wiggled a little bit, but struggling was useless.

  “Hello, Mr. Argyle,” Walt said to the spider. “Top o’ the morning to you.” The spider seemed to retract at the sound of his voice, flattening itself into the corner. Walt wondered if he had a duty to the fly that was still alive; but probably there was no practical purpose in trying to do anything for it. And whatever moral value there would be in such a kindness was vague. Holding the pot carefully so as not to disturb the spider any more than necessary, he set two tiny chairs and a table onto the shelf and spread the little woven rug on the floor. Then he swiveled the pot around so that the broken-out section faced outward before he lowered the thing down over the furniture.

  He returned to the garage, where he slipped a flashlight into his pocket. Then he looked in through the window again. The cartoon was just ending. Walt opened the back door and gestured to Nora and Eddie. “Put your shoes on,” he said. “I want to show you something.”

  “Oh!” Nora said breathlessly, leaping up. Desperately she searched the floor with her eyes, holding one hand to her mouth. What she was looking for wasn’t at all clear. “What kind is it?” She looked wide-eyed at Walt.

  “No kind,” Walt said. “Just something. Out under the tree.”

  Eddie leaned out and picked up Nora’s shoes, which were in plain sight, and calmly handed them to her. She seemed relieved, as if a mystery had been cleared up. Eddie put on his own shoes without a word, carefully double-knotting the laces.

  They followed Walt out through the door, across the wet grass. In the bright sunlight, rainwater steamed off the lawn in a mist. “It’ll be summer by noon,” Walt said, patting Nora’s shoulder. She smiled big at him and nodded. “Look here.” Walt pointed at a snail, heading for the dead herb garden. “This is Mr. Binion.”

  “He has a name?” Nora asked. Eddie didn’t look at the snail, but studied the palm of his hand.

  “Oh, yes,” Walt said. “There are many animals that live in these old neighborhoods.” He suddenly remembered his success with last night’s story, and he cast his voice low and serious, waving his hand, taking it all in. “At night,” he said, “possums and raccoons use these fences as roads, going from one house to another in search of food. In the spring, toads appear from out of ditches, and families of salamanders come to live under fallen logs.”

  “What kind?” Nora asked, squishing up her face. Eddie picked up a bent stick that had fallen from the avocado tree and swung it like a baseball bat. He looked away, deadpan, staring at some spot in the sky now.

  “What kind of what?” Walt asked.

  “Those things.”

  “Salamanders?”

  Nora nodded.

  “Do you know what a salamander is?” Walt asked. Nora shook her head.

  “It’s a sort of newt.”

  “Oh.”

  “Like a lizard,” Eddie said helpfully.

  “And like toads?” Nora asked.

  “Kind of,” Walt said. “A toad is its cousin. And do you know what?”

  “What?” Nora whispered now.

  Walt squinted at her. “There was a toad out here last week that was wearing a hat and coat.”

  “Oh!” Nora cried.

  “And a mouse with a vest on. And spectacles.”

  She covered her mouth with her hand, as if to keep from shouting out loud. Eddie rolled his eyes.

  “What?” Walt said to Eddie. “You don’t believe me?”

  Eddie shook his head, grinning faintly.

  “I’ll bet you a plug nickel,” Walt said. “Try me.”

  “Bet him!” Nora shouted. “Bet him, Eddie!”

  Eddie shook his head, still grinning.

  “Well, let’s just see, then.” Walt led the way into the garden shed, pretending to search around among the shovels and rakes. Nora followed him, taking exaggerated steps and biting her bottom lip. Eddie swung his stick with one hand, as if it were a sword now.

  “What’s this?” Walt said. He stopped in his tracks, double-taking at the overturned flower pot. “What have we here?”

  “What is it?” Nora said. “The snail?”

  “It’s a pot,” Eddie said.

  Walt pulled the flashlight out of his pocket and switched it on, then shined it in through the jagged door in the side of the pot. He could see the doll furniture in there. “What on earth? Nora, take a closer look.”

  Nora stepped forward, glancing at him wide-eyed, then stood on tiptoe and peered into the hole in the pot. Her breath caught. She’d seen it. Very slowly she turned toward Walt. “Something’s house,” she whispered.

  Walt nodded. “It’s the house of the amazing Mr. Argyle.” He motioned to Eddie. “Have a look-see.” He held the light on the hole.

  Eddie looked in, and Nora clutched his arm, trying to get in close enough to take another look herself. “Don’t pig up,” she whispered. And then, with his free hand, Eddie reached up and grasped the top of the pot, upending it, exposing the doll furniture, the quivering web, the buzzing little fly wound in gauze. The spider, big around as a silver dollar with its legs fully extended, rushed down the side of the pot and out onto Eddie’s wrist. Nora screamed, leaping backward into Walt, and Eddie hooted with wild surprise, flinging the flowerpot into the fence and raking the stick down his arm to dislodge the spider. It fell into the dirt, and Eddy drew the stick back and slammed it down, yelling, “Shit! Shit! Shit!” and flailing at the spider until the stick broke off short in his hand.

  Nora shook with spasms of fear and shock, and Walt hugged her, trying to calm her down. Eddie stomped on the spider, or where the spider had been, grinding it into the dirt until he worked all the wild terror out of himself. Then he stood there breathing heavily, looking at the ground as if for signs of movement.

  “I think you got him,” Walt said after a moment.

  “What was he?” Nora asked, calming down now that the threat was passed.

  “Daddy longlegs,” Walt said.

  “A daddy?”

  “A spider,’ Eddie said.

  “Is he Mr. Argyle?” Nora asked. “Like you said?”

  “No,” Walt lied. “I don’t know what he’s done with Mr. Argyle.”

  “He killed him,” Nora said.

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” Walt said.

  “He killed Mr. Argyle.”’ Nora started to giggle, finally coveri
ng her mouth with her hands.

  Walt was relieved. She was apparently coming out of it. “What’s funny?” he asked her.

  “Eddie said ‘shit,’” Nora said. “Shit, shit, shit.”

  “Yes, indeed,” Walt said. “He had a reason to. You don’t have a reason to, so don’t say it.”

  “I’m telling you.”

  “I already know.”

  “Poor Mr. Argyle,” Nora said, and together they walked back toward the house.

  Walt heard the sound of a distant church bell tolling eight o’clock. For a moment he thought it was the bells of St. Anthony’s, miraculously restored—but it couldn’t be. These were tolling somewhere across Old Towne, beyond the Plaza, probably the bells in the tower at Holy Spirit Catholic Church. He couldn’t remember that they tolled the hours, but then maybe he’d never been listening for them, having always had bells closer to home. They took up the first notes of a Christmas carol, and carols were still ringing fifteen minutes later as he and Nora and Eddie drove east on Chapman Avenue, toward the Oak Lawn Preschool, the rain coming down hard again.

  Walt ushered the children in through the door, past a half dozen mothers dropping off kids. One child stood in the hallway and sobbed out loud, and two others, apparently sisters, slugged and pinched each other, kicking like fiends on the carpeted floor of a classroom, or whatever they called it. There was a scream from down the hall, muffled by a closed door.

  “I guess it’s just another day in paradise,” Walt said to the receptionist. He introduced Nora and Eddie to her, and the woman handed him a couple of forms to fill out and then started chatting with the kids.

  A door swung open off the hall just then, and through it, looking like a hammered mannequin, strode Robert Argyle, heading toward the open front door, and carrying his coat over his arm. He spotted Walt and seemed to go brain-dead for a moment, his face losing all powers of expression. Slowly he recovered, forcing a smile as he stepped forward, holding out his hand. Walt shook it for an instant and dropped it.