A Saucer of Loneliness (19 page)
Read A Saucer of Loneliness Online
Authors: Theodore Sturgeon
Don stood up. “Miss Phoebe,” he said. “Miss Phoebe …” It was the voice of terror itself.
Then a strange thing happened.
It may have been the mere fact of his rising, of being able, for a moment, to stand over her, look down on her. “Miss Phoebe,” he said “there—ain’t—no—filthy—story.”
She got up and without another word, marched to the door. As she opened it the boy raised his fists. His wrists and forearms corded and writhed. His head went back, his lungs filled, and with all his
strength he shouted the filthiest word he knew. It had one syllable, it was sibilant and explosive, it was immensely satisfying.
Miss Phoebe stopped, barely in balance between one pace and the next, momentarily paralyzed. It was like the breaking of the drive-coil on a motion picture projector.
“They locked her up,” said Don hoarsely. “They took her away with two floozies an’ a ole woman with DT’s. She ain’t never goin’ to see me again. Her ole man’ll kill me if he ever sets eyes on me. You were all I had left. Get the hell out of here …”
She reached the door as it was opened from the other side by a policeman, who said, “What’s goin’ on here?”
“Incorrigible,” Miss Phoebe spat, and went out. They took Don back to his cell.
The courtroom was dark and its pew-like seats were almost empty. Outside it was raining, and the statue of Justice had a broken nose. Don sat with his head in his hands, not caring about the case being heard, not caring about his own, not caring about people or things or feelings. For five days he had not cared about the whitewashed cell he had shared with the bicycle thief; the two prunes and weak coffee for breakfast, the blare of the radio in the inner court; the day in, day out screaming of the man on the third tier who hoarsely “din’t do it I din’t do it I din’t do …”
His name was called and he was led or shoved—he didn’t care which—before the bench. A man took his hand and put it on a book held by another man who said something rapidly. “I do,” said Don. And then Joyce was there, led up by a tired kindly old fellow with eyes like hers and an unhappy mouth. Don looked at her once and was sure she wasn’t even trying to recognize his existence. If she had left her hands at her sides, she was close enough for him to have touched one of them secretly, for they stood side by side, facing the judge. But she kept her hands in front of her and stood with her eyes closed, with her whole face closed, her lashes down on her cheeks like little barred gates.
The cop, the lousy cop was there too, and he reeled off things about Don and things about Joyce that were things they hadn’t done,
couldn’t have done, wouldn’t do … he cared about that for a moment, but as he listened it seemed very clear that what the cop was saying was about two other people who knew a lot about flesh and nothing about love; and after that he stopped caring again.
When the cop was finished, the kindly tired man came forward and said that he would press no charges against this young man if he promised he would not see his daughter again until she was twenty-one. The judge pushed down his glasses and looked over them at Don. “Will you make that promise?”
Don looked at the tired man, who turned away. He looked at Joyce, whose eyes were closed. “Sure,” he told the judge.
There was some talk about respecting the laws of society which were there to protect innocence, and how things would be pretty bad if Don ever appeared before that bench again, and next thing he knew he was being led through the corridors back to the jail, where they returned the wallet and fountain pen they had taken away from him, made him sign a book, unlocked three sets of doors and turned him loose. He stood in the rain and saw, half a block away, Joyce and her father getting into a cab.
About two hours later one of the jail guards came out and saw him. “Hey, boy. You like it here?”
Don pulled the wet hair out of his eyes and looked at the man, and turned and walked off without saying anything.
“Well, hel
lo
!”
“Now you get away from me, girl. You’re just going to get me in trouble and I don’t want no trouble.”
“I won’t make any trouble for you, really I won’t. Don’t you want to talk to me?”
“Look, you know me, you heard ’bout me. Hey, you been sick?”
“No.”
“You look like you been sick. I was sick a whole lot. Fellow down on his luck, everything happens. Here comes the old lady from the delicatessen. She’ll see us.”
“That’s all right.”
“She’ll see you, she knows you, she’ll see you talkin’ to me. I
don’t want no trouble.”
“There won’t be any trouble. Please don’t be afraid. I’m not afraid of you.”
“I ain’t scared of you either but one night that young fellow of yours, that tall skinny one, he said he’ll throw me under a train if I talk to you.”
“I have no fellow.”
“Yes you have, that tall skin—”
“Not any more. Not any more … talk to me for a while. Please talk to me.”
“You sure? You sure he ain’t … you ain’t …”
“I’m sure. He’s gone, he doesn’t write, he doesn’t care.”
“You been sick.”
“No, no, no, no!… I want to tell you something: if ever you eat your heart out over something, hoping and wishing for it, dreaming and wanting it, doing everything you can to make yourself fit for it; and then that something comes along, know what to do?”
“I do’ wan’ no trouble … yeah, grab it!”
“No.
Run!
Close your eyes and turn your back and run away. Because wanting something you’ve never had hurts, sometimes, but not like having it and then losing it.”
“I never had
nothing
.”
“You did so. And you were locked up for years.”
“I didn’t have it, girl. I used it. It wasn’t mine.”
“You didn’t lose it, then; ah, I
see
!”
“If a cop comes along he’ll pinch me just because I’m talkin’ to you. I’m just a bum, I’m down on my luck, we can’t stand out here like this.”
“Over there, then. Coffee.”
“I ain’t got but four cents.”
“Come on. I have enough.”
“What’sa matter with you, you want to talk to a bum like me!”
“Come on, come on … listen, listen to this:
“ ‘It is late last night the dog was speaking of you; the snipe was speaking of you in her deep marsh. It is you are
the lonely bird throughout the woods; and that you may be without a mate until you find me
.
“ ‘You promised me and you said a lie to me, that you would be before me where the sheep are flocked. I gave a whistle and three hundred cries to you; and I found nothing there but a bleating lamb
.
“‗You promised me a thing that was hard for you, a ship of gold under a silver mast; twelve towns and a market in all of them, and a fine white court by the side of the sea
.
“ ‘You promised me a thing that is not possible; that you would give me gloves of the skin of a fish; that you would give me shoes of the skin of a bird, and a suit of the dearest silk in Ireland
.
“ ‘My mother said to me not to be talking with you, today or tomorrow or on Sunday. It was a bad time she took for telling me that, it was shutting the door after the house was robbed
.…
“ ‘You have taken the east from me, you have taken the west from me, you have taken what is before me and what is behind me; you have taken the moon, you have taken the sun from me, and my fear is great you have taken God from me.’ ”
“… That’s something I remembered. I remember, I remember everything.”
“That’s a lonesome thing to remember.”
“Yes … and no one knows who she was. A man called Yeats heard this Irish girl lamenting, and took it down.”
“I don’t know, I seen you around, I never saw you like this, you been sick.”
“Drink your coffee and we’ll have another cup.”
Dear Miss Phoebe:
Well dont fall over with surprise to get a letter from me I am not much at letter writing to any body and I never
thot I would wind up writing to you.
I know you was mad at me and I guess I was mad at you too. Why I am writing this is I am trying to figure out what it was all about. I know why I was mad I was mad because you said there was something dirty about what I did. Mentioning no names. I did not do nothing dirty and so thats why I was mad.
But all I know about you Miss Phoebe is you was mad I dont know why. I never done nothing to you I was ascared to in the first place and anyway I thot you was my freind. I thot anytime there was something on my mind I could not figure it out, all I had to do was to tell you. This one time I was in more trouble then I ever had in my entire. All you did you got mad at me.
Now if you want to stay mad at me thats your busnis but I wish you would tell me why. I wish we was freinds again but okay if you dont want to.
Well write to me if you feel like it at the Seamans Institute thats where I am picking up my mail these days I took a ride on a tank ship and was sick most of the time but thats life.
I am going to get a new fountan pen this one wont spell right (joke). So take it easy yours truly Don.
Don came out of the Seaman’s Institute and stood looking at the square. A breeze lifted and dropped, carrying smells of fish and gasoline, spices, sea-salt, and a slight chill. Don buttoned up his pea-jacket and pushed his hands down into the pockets. Miss Phoebe’s letter was there, straight markings on inexpensive, efficient paper, the envelope torn almost in two because of the way he had opened it. He could see it in his mind’s eye without effort.
My Dear Don:
Your letter came as something of a surprise to me. I thought you might write, but not that you would claim unawareness of the reasons for my feelings toward you.
You will remember that I spent a good deal of time and energy in acquainting you with the nature of Good and the nature of Evil. I went even further and familiarized you with a kind of union between souls which, without me, would have been impossible to you. And I feel I made quite clear to you the fact that a certain state of grace is necessary to the achievement of these higher levels of being.
Far from attempting to prove to me that you were a worthy pupil of the teachings I might have given you, you plunged immediately into actions which indicate that there is a complete confusion in your mind as to Good and Evil. You have grossly defiled yourself, almost as if you insisted upon being unfit. You engaged in foul and carnal practices which make a mockery of the pure meetings of the higher selves which once were possible to you.
You should understand that the Sources of the power I once offered you are ancient and sacred and not to be taken lightly. Your complete lack of reverence for these antique matters is to me the most unforgivable part of your inexcusable conduct. The Great Thinkers who developed these powers in ancient times surely meant a better end for them than that they be given to young animals.
Perhaps one day you will become capable of understanding the meaning of reverence, obedience, and honor to ancient mysteries. At that time I would be interested to hear from you again.
Yours very truly,
(Miss) Phoebe Watkins.
Don growled deep in his throat. Subsequent readings would serve to stew all the juices from the letter; one reading was sufficient for him to realize that in the note was no affection and no forgiveness. He remembered the birthday cake with a pang. He remembered the painful hot lump in his throat when she had ordered him to wash his face; she had
cared
whether he washed his face or not.
He went slowly down to the street. He looked older; he felt older.
He had used his seaman’s papers for something else besides entree to a clean and inexpensive dormitory. Twice he had thought he was near that strange, blazing loss of self he had experienced with Miss Phoebe, just in staring at the living might of the sea. Once, lying on his back on deck in a clear moonless night, he had been sure of it. There had been a sensation of having been
chosen
for something, of having been fingertip-close to some simple huge fact, some great normal coalescence of time and distance, a fusion and balance, like yin and Yang, in all things. But it had escaped him, and now it was of little assistance to him to know that his sole authority in such things considered him as disqualified.
“Foul an’ carnal practices,” he said under his breath.
Miss Phoebe
, he thought,
I bet I could tell you a thing or two about ‘reverence, obedience an’ honor to ancient mysteries.’
In a flash of deep understanding, he saw that those who hold themselves aloof from the flesh are incapable of comprehending this single fact about those who do not: only he who is free to take it is truly conscious of what he does when he leaves it alone.
Someone was in his way. He stepped aside and the man was still in the way. He snapped out of his introspection and brought his sight back to earth, clothed in an angry scowl.
For a moment he did not recognize the man. He was still tattered, but he was clean and straight, and his eyes were clear. It was obvious that he felt the impact of Don’s scowl; he retreated a short pace, and with the step were the beginnings of old reflexes: to cringe, to flee. But then he held hard, and Don had to stop.
“Y’own the sidewalk?” Don demanded. “Oh—it’s you.”
“I got to talk to you,” the man said in a strained voice.
“I got nothin’ to talk to you about,” said Don. “Get back underground where you belong. Go root for cigar butts in the subway.”
“It’s about Joyce,” said the man.
Don reached and gathered together the lapels of the man’s old jacket. “I told you once to stay away from her. That means don’t even talk about her.”
“Get your hands off me,” said the man evenly.
Don grunted in surprise, and let him go. The man said, “I had
somepin’ to tell you, but now you can go to hell.”
Don laughed. “What do you know! What are you—full of hash or somethin’?”
The man tugged at the lapels and moved to pass Don. Don caught his arm. “Wait. What did you want to tell me?”
The man looked into his face. “Remember you said you was going to kill me, I get near her?”