At noon, Grandma went to the store to buy groceries.
As was his custom every day when Grandma was gone, Douglas yelled outside Mr. Koberman's door for a full three minutes. As usual, there was no response. The silence was horrible.
He ran downstairs, got the pass-key, a silver fork, and the three pieces of colored glass he had saved from the shattered window. He fitted the key to the lock and swung the door slowly open.
The room was in half light, the shades drawn. Mr. Koberman lay atop his bedcovers, in slumber clothes, breathing gently, up and down. He didn't move. His face was motionless.
"Hello, Mr. Koberman!"
The colorless walls echoed the man's regular breathing.
"Mr. Koberman, hello!"
Bouncing a golf ball, Douglas advanced. He yelled. Still no answer. "Mr. Koberman!"
Bending over Mr. Koberman, Douglas picked the tines of the silver fork in the sleeping man's face.
Mr. Koberman winced. He twisted. He groaned bitterly.
Response. Good. Swell.
Douglas drew a piece of blue glass from his pocket. Looking through the blue glass fragment he found himself in a blue room, in a blue world different from the world he knew. As different as was the red world. Blue furniture, blue bed, blue ceiling and walls, blue wooden eating utensils atop the blue bureau, and the sullen dark blue of Mr. Koberman's face and arms and his blue chest rising, falling. Also…
Mr. Koherman's eyes were wide, staring at him with a hungry darkness.
Douglas felt back, pulled the blue glass from his eyes.
Mr. Koberman's eyes were shut.
Blue glass again-open. Blue glass away-shut. Blue glass again-open. Away-shut. Funny. Douglas experimented, trembling. Through the glass the eyes seemed to peer hungrily, avidly through Mr. Koberman's closed lids. Without the blue glass they seemed tightly shut.
But it was the rest of Mr. Koberman's body.
Mr. Koberman's bedclothes dissolved off him. The blue glass had something to do with it. Or perhaps it was the clothes themselves, just being on Mr. Koberman. Douglas cried out.
He was looking through the wall of Mr. Koberman's stomach, right inside him!
Mr. Koberman was solid.
Or, nearly so, anyway.
There were strange shapes and sizes within him.
Douglas must have stood amazed for five minutes, thinking about the blue worlds, the red worlds, the yellow worlds side by side, living together like glass panes around the big white stair window. Side by side, the colored panes, the different worlds; Mr. Koberman had said so himself.
So this was why the colored window had been broken.
"Mr. Koberman, wake up!"
No answer.
"Mr. Koberman, where do you work at night? Mr. Koberman, where do you work?"
A little breeze stirred the blue window shade.
"In a red world or a green world or a yellow one, Mr. Koberman?"
Over everything was a blue glass silence.
"Wait there," said Douglas.
He walked down to the kitchen, pulled open the great squeaking drawer and picked out the sharpest, biggest knife.
Very calmly he walked into the hall, climbed back up the stairs again, opened the door to Mr. Koberman's room, went in, and closed it, holding the sharp knife in one hand.
Grandma was busy fingering a piecrust into a pan when Douglas entered the kitchen to place something on the table.
"Grandma, what's this?"
She glanced up briefly, over her glasses. "I don't know."
It was square, like a box, and elastic. It was bright orange in color. It had four square tubes, colored blue, attached to it. It smelled funny.
"Ever see anything like it, Grandma?"
"No."
"That's what I thought."
Douglas left it there, went from the kitchen. Five minutes later he returned with something else. "How about this?"
He laid down a bright pink linked chain with a purple triangle at one end.
"Don't bother me," said Grandma. "It's only a chain."
Next time he returned with two hands full. A ring, a square, a triangle, a pyramid, a rectangle, and-other shapes. All of them were pliable, resilient, and looked as if they were made of gelatin. "This isn't all," said Douglas, putting them down. "There's more where this came from."
Grandma said, "Yes, yes," in a far-off tone, very busy.
"You were wrong, Grandma."
"About what?"
"About all people being the same inside."
"Stop talking nonsense."
"Where's my piggy-bank?"
"On the mantel, where you left it."
"Thanks."
He tromped into the parlor, reached up for his piggy-bank. Grandpa came home from the office at five. "Grandpa, come upstairs."
"Sure, son. Why?"
"Something to show you. It's not nice; but it's interesting." Grandpa chuckled, following his grandson's feet up to Mr. Koberman's room. "Grandma mustn't know about this; she wouldn't like it," said Douglas. He pushed the door wide open. "There."
Grandfather gasped.
Douglas remembered the next few hours all the rest of his life. Standing over Mr. Koberman's naked body, the coroner and his assistants. Grandma, downstairs, asking somebody, "What's going on up there?" and Grandpa saying, shakily, "I'll take Douglas away on a long vacation so he can forget this whole ghastly affair. Ghastly, ghastly affair!"
Douglas said, "Why should it be bad? I don't see anything bad. I don't feel bad."
The coroner shivered and said, "Koberman's dead, all right."
His assistant sweated. "Did you see those things in the pans of water and in the wrapping paper?"
"Oh, my God, my God, yes, I saw them."
"Christ."
The coroner bent over Mr. Koberman's body again. "This better be kept secret, boys. It wasn't murder. It was a mercy the boy acted. God knows what might have happened if he hadn't."
"What was Koberman? A vampire? A monster?"
"Maybe. I don't know. Something-not human." The coroner moved his hands deftly over the suture.
Douglas was proud of his work. He'd gone to much trouble. He had watched Grandmother carefully and remembered. Needle and thread and all. All in all, Mr. Koberman was as neat a job as any chicken ever popped into hell by Grandma.
"I heard the boy say that Koberman lived even after all those things were taken out of him." The coroner looked at the triangles and chains and pyramids floating in the pans of water. "Kept on living. God."
"Did the boy say that?"
"He did."
"Then, what did kill Koberman?"
The coroner drew a few strands of sewing thread from their bedding.
"This…" he said.
Sunlight blinked coldly off a half-revealed treasure trove; six dollars and seventy cents' worth of silver dimes inside Mr. Koberman's chest.
"I think Douglas made a wise investment," said the coroner, sewing the flesh back up over the "dressing" quickly.
There Was an Old Woman
"No, there's no lief arguin'. I got my mind fixed. Run along with your silly wicker basket. Land, where you ever get notions like that? You just skit out of here; don't bother me, I got my tattin' and knittin' to do, and no never minds about tall, dark gentlemen with fangled ideas."
The tall, dark young man stood quietly, not moving. Aunt Tildy hurried on with her talk.
"You heard what I said! If you got a mind to talk to me, well, you can talk, but meantime I hope you don't mind if I pour myself coffee. There. If you'd been more polite, I'd offer you some, but you jump in here high and mighty and you never rapped on the door or nothin'. You think you own the place."
Aunt Tildy fussed with her lap. "Now, you made me lose count! i'm makin' myself a comforter. These winters get on mighty chill, and it ain't fittin' for a lady with bones like rice-paper to be settin' in a drafty old house without warmin' herself."
The tall, dark man sat down.
The bone-porcelain, flowered clock on the mantel finished chiming three. Out in the hail, grouped around the wicker basket, four men waited, quietly, as if they were frozen.
"Now, about that wicker basket," said Aunt Tildy. "It's past six feet long, and by the look, it ain't laundry. And those four men you walked in with, you don't need them to carry that basket-why, it's light as thistles. Eh?"
The dark young man was leaning forward on the antique chair. Something in his face suggested the basket wouldn't be so light after a while.
"Pshaw," Aunt Tildy mused. "Where've I seen a wicker like that before? Seems it was only a couple years ago. Seems to me-oh! Now I remember. It was when Mrs. Dwyer passed away next door."
Aunt Tildy set her coffee cup down, sternly. "So that's what you're up to? I thought you were workin' to sell me somethin'. You just set there until my little Emily trounces home from college this afternoon! I wrote her a note last week. Not admittin', of course, that I wasn't feelin' quite ripe and pert, but sort of hintin' I want to see her again, it's been a good many weeks. Her livin' in New York and all. Almost like my own daughter, Emily is.
"Now, she'll take care of you, young man. She'll shoo you out'n this parlor so quick it'll-"
The dark young man looked at Aunt Tildy as if she were tired.
"No, I'm not!" she snapped.
He weaved back and forth on the chair, half-shutting his eyes, resting himself. O, wouldn't she like to rest, too? he seemed to murmur. Rest, rest, nice rest…"
"Great sons of Goshen on the Gilberry Dike! I got a hunderd comforters, two hundred sweaters and six hundred potholders in these fingers, no matter they're skinny! You run off, come back when I'm done, maybe I'll talk to you." Aunt Tildy shifted subjects. "Let me tell you about Emily, my sweet, fair child."
Aunt Tildy nodded thoughtfully. Emily, with hair like yellow corn tassels, just as soft and fine.
"I well remember the day her mother died, twenty years ago, leavin' Emily to my house. That's why I'm mad at you and your wickers and such goings-on. Who ever heard of people dyin' for any good cause? Young man, I don't like it. Why, I remember-"
Aunt Tildy paused; a brief pain of memory touched her heart. Twenty-five years back, her father's voice trembled in the late afternoon: "Tildy," he whispered, "what you goin' to do in life? The way you act, men don't walk much with you. You kiss and skedaddle. Why don't you settle down, marry, raise children?"
"Papa," Tildy shouted back at him, "I like laughin' and playin' and singin'. I'm not the marryin' kind. I can't find a man with my philosophy, Papa."
"What 'philosophy's' that?"
"That death is ridiculous! It run off with Mama when we needed her most. You call that intelligent?"
Papa's eyes got wet and gray and bleak. "You're always right, Tildy. But what can we do? Death comes to everybody."
"Fight!" she cried. "Strike it below the belt! Don't believe in it!"
"Can't he done," said Papa sadly. "We all stand alone in the world."
"There's got to be a change sometime, Papa. I'm startin' my own philosophy here and now! Why, it's silly people live a couple years and are shoved like wet seeds in a hole; but nothin' sprouts. What good do they do? Lay there a million years, helpin' no one. Most of them fine, nice, neat people, or at least tryin'."
But Papa wasn't listening. He bleached out, faded away, like a photo left lying in the sun. She tried to talk him out of it, hut he passed on, anyway. She spun about and ran. She couldn't stay on once he was cold, for his coldness denied her philosophy. She didn't attend his burial. She didn't do anything but set up this antique shop on the front of an old house and live alone for years, that is, until Emily came. Tildy didn't want to take the girl in. Why? Because Emily believed in dying. But her mother was an old friend and Tildy had promised help.
"Emily," continued Aunt Tildy, to the man in black, "was the first to live in this house with me in all the years. I never got married. I feared the idea of livin' with a man twenty-thirty years and then have him up and die on me. It'd shake my convictions like a house of cards. I shied off from the world. I screamed at people if they so much as mentioned death."
The young man listened patiently, politely. Then he lifted his hand. He seemed to know everything, with the dark, cold shining of his eyes, before she opened her mouth. He knew about her and World War II, when she shut off her radio forever and stopped the newspapers and beat a man's head with an umbrella, driving him from her shop when he insisted on describing the invasion beaches and the long, slow tides of the dead drifting under the silent urgings of the moon.
Yes, the dark young man smiled from the antique rocker, he knew how Aunt Tildy had stuck to her nice old phonograph records. Harry Lauder singing "Roamin' in the Gloamin'," Madame Schumann-Heink and lullabies. With no interruptions, no foreign calamities, murders, poisonings, auto accidents, suicides. Music stayed the same each day, every day. So the years ran, while Aunt Tildy tried to teach Emily her philosophy. But Emily's mind was fixed on mortality. She respected Aunt Tildy's way of thinking, however, and never mentioned-eternity.
All this the young man knew.
Aunt Tildy sniffed. "How do you know all those things? Well, if you think you can talk me into that silly wicker basket, you're way off the trestle. You lay hands on me, I'll spit right in your face!"
The young man smiled. Aunt Tildy sniffed again.
"Don't simper like a sick dog. I'm too old to be made love at. That's all twisted dry, like an old tube of paint, and left behind in the years."
There was a noise. The mantel clock chimed three. Aunt Tildy flashed her eyes to it. Strange. Hadn't it chimed three o'clock just five minutes ago? She liked the bone-white clock with gold angels dangling naked about its numeraled face and its tone like cathedral bells, soft and far away.
"Are you just goin' to sit there, young man?"
He was.
"Then, you won't mind if I take a little cat nap. Now, don't you stir off that chair. Don't come creepin' around me. Just goin' to close my eyes for a spell. That's right. That's right…"
Nice and quiet and restful time of day. Silence. Just the clock ticking away, busy as termites in wood. Just the old room smelling of polished mahogany and oiled leather in the Morris chair, and hooks sitting stiff on the shelves. So nice. Nice…
"You aren't gettin' up from the chair, are you, mister? Better not. I got one eye open for you. Yes, indeed I have. Yes, I have. Oh. Ah, hmmmm."
So feathery. So drowsy. So deep. Under water, almost. Oh, so nice.
Who's that movin' around in the dark with my eyes closed? Who's that kissin' my cheek? You, Emily? No. No. Guess it was my thoughts. Only-dreamin'. Land, yes, that's it. Driftin' off, off, off.
AH? WHAT SAY? OH!
"Wait while I put on my glasses. There!"
The clock chimed three again. Shame, old clock, now, shame. Have to have you fixed.
The young man in the dark suit stood near the door. Aunt Tildy nodded.
"You leavin' so soon, young man? Had to give up, didn't you? Couldn't convince me; no, I'm mule-stubborn. Never get me free of this house, so don't bother comin' back to try!"
The young man bowed with slow dignity.
He had no intention of coming again, ever.
"Fine," declared Aunt Tildy. "I always told Papa I'd win! Why, I'll knit in this window the next thousand years. They'll have to chew the boards down around me to get me out."
The dark young man twinkled his eyes.
"Quit lookin' like the cat that ate the bird," cried Aunt Tildy. "Get that old fool wicker away!"
The four men trod heavily out the front door. Tildy studied the way they handled an empty basket, yet staggered with its weight.
"Here, now!" She rose
in tremulous indignation. "Did you steal my antiques? My books? The clocks? What you got in that wicker?"
The dark young man whistled jauntily, turning his back to her, walking along behind the four staggering men. At the door he pointed to the wicker, offered its lid to Aunt Tildy. In pantomime he wondered if she would like to open it and gaze inside.
"Curious? Me? Pshaw, no. Get out!" cried Aunt Tildy.
The dark young man tapped a hat onto his head, saluted her crisply.
"Good-by!" Aunt Tildy slammed the door.
There, there. That was better. Gone. Darned fool men with their maggoty ideas. No never minds about the wicker. If they stole something, she didn't care, long as they let her alone.
"Look." Aunt Tildy smiled. "Here comes Emily, home from college. About time. Lovely girl. See how she walks. But, land, she looks pale and funny today, walkin' so slow. I wonder why. Looks worried, she does. Poor girl. I'll just fix some coffee and a tray of cakes."
Emily tapped up the front steps. Aunt Tildy, rustling around, could hear the slow, deliberate steps. What ailed the girl? Didn't sound like she had no more spunk than a flue-lizard. The front door swung wide. Emily stood in the hall, holding to the brass doorknob.
"Emily?" called Aunt Tildy.
Emily shuffled into the parlor, head down.
"Emily! I been waitin' for you! There was the darndest fool men here with a wicker. Tryin' to sell me something I didn't want. Glad you're home. Makes it right cozy-"
Aunt Tildy realized that for a full minute Emily had been staring.
"Emily, what's wrong? Stop starin'. Here, I'll bring you a cup of coffee. There! - "Emily, why you backin' away from me?
"Emily, stop screamin', child. Don't scream, Emily! Don't! You keep screamin' that way, you go crazy. Emily, get up off the floor, get away from that wall! Emily! Stop cringin', child. I won't hurt you!
"Land, if it ain't one thing it's another.
"Emily, what's wrong, child…"
Emily groaned through her hands over her face.
The October Country Page 22
