All Flesh Is Grass (25 page)

Someone stirred beside me and I saw that it was Nancy. I knew now that she had been standing there for some little time.

“Look at them,” I said. “It's a holiday for them. Any minute now the parade will be along.”

“They're just ordinary people,” Nancy said. “You can't expect too much of them. Brad, I'm afraid you do expect too much of them. You even expected that the men who were here would take what you told them at face value, immediately and unquestioningly.”

“Your father did,” I said.

“Father's different. He's not an ordinary man. And, besides, he had some prior knowledge, he had a little warning. He had one of those telephones. He knew a little bit about it.”

“Some,” I said. “Not much.”

“I haven't talked with him. There's been no chance for us to talk. And I couldn't ask him in front of all those people. But I know that he's involved. Is it dangerous, Brad?”

“I don't think so. Not from out there or back there or wherever that other world may be. No danger from the alien world—not now, not yet. Any danger that we have to face lies in this world of ours. We have a decision we must make and it has to be the right one.”

“How can we tell,” she asked, “what is the right decision? We have no precedent.”

And that was it, of course, I thought. There was no way in which a decision—any decision—could be justified.

There was a shouting from outside and I moved closer to the window to see farther up the street. Striding down the center of it came Hiram Martin and in one hand he carried a cordless telephone.

Nancy caught sight of him and said, “He's bringing back your phone. Funny, I never thought he would.”

It was Hiram shouting and he was shouting in a chant, a deliberate, mocking chant.

“All right, come out and get your phone. Come on out and get your God damn phone.”

Nancy caught her breath and I brushed past her to the door. I jerked it open and stepped out on the porch.

Hiram reached the gate and he quit his chanting. The two of us stood there, watching one another. The crowd was getting noisy and surging closer.

Then Hiram raised his arm, with the phone held above his head.

“All right,” he yelled, “here's your phone, you dirty …”

Whatever else he said was drowned out by the howling of the crowd.

Then Hiram threw the phone. It was an unhandy thing to throw and the throw was not too good. The receiver flew out to one side, with its trailing cord looping in the air behind it. When the cord jerked taut, the flying phone skidded out of its trajectory and came crashing to the concrete walk, falling about halfway between the gate and porch. Pieces of shattered plastic sprayed across the lawn.

Scarcely aware that I was doing it, acting not by any thought or consideration, but on pure emotion, I came down off the porch and headed for the gate. Hiram backed away to give me room and I came charging through the gate and stood facing him.

I'd had enough of Hiram Martin. I was filled up to here with him. He'd been in my hair for the last two days and I was sick to death of him. There was just one thought—to tear the man apart, to pound him to a pulp, to make certain he'd never sneer at me again, never mock me, never try again to bully me by the sole virtue of sheer size.

I was back in the days of childhood—seeing through the stubborn and red-shot veil of hatred that I had known then, hating this man I knew would lick me, as he had many times before, but ready, willing, anxious to inflict whatever hurt I could while he was licking me.

Someone bawled, “Give 'em room!” Then I was charging at him and he hit me. He didn't have the time or room to take much of a swing at me, but his fist caught me on the side of the head and it staggered me and hurt. He hit me again almost immediately, but this one also was a glancing blow and didn't hurt at all—and this time I connected. I got my left into his belly just above his belt and when he doubled over I caught him in the mouth and felt the smart of bruised, cut knuckles as they smashed against his teeth. I was swinging again when a fist came out of nowhere and slammed into my head and my head exploded into a pinwheel of screaming stars. I knew that I was down, for I could feel the hardness of the street against my knees, but I struggled up and my vision cleared. I couldn't feel my legs. I seemed to be moving and bobbing in the air with nothing under me. I saw Hiram's face just a foot or so away and his mouth was a gash of red and there was blood on his shirt. So I hit his mouth again—not very hard, perhaps, for there wasn't much steam left behind my punches. But he grunted and he ducked away and I came boring in.

And that was when he hit me for keeps.

I felt myself going down, falling backwards and it seemed that it took a long time for me to fall. Then I hit and the street was harder than I thought it would be and hitting the street hurt me more than the punch that put me there.

I groped around, trying to get my hands in position to hoist myself erect, although I wondered vaguely why I bothered. For if I got up, Hiram would belt me another one and I'd be back down again. But I knew I had to get up, that I had to get up each time I was able. For that was the kind of game Hiram and I had always played. He knocked me down each time I got up and I kept on getting up until I couldn't any more and I never cried for quarter and I never admitted I was licked. And if, for the rest of my life, I could keep on doing that, then I'd be the one who won, not Hiram.

But I wasn't doing so well. I wasn't getting up. Maybe, I thought, this is the time I don't get up.

I still kept pawing with my hands, trying to lift myself, and that's how I got the rock. Some kid, perhaps, had thrown it, maybe days before—maybe at a bird, maybe at a dog, maybe just for the fun of throwing rocks. And it had landed in the street and stayed there and now the fingers of my right hand found it and closed around it and it fitted comfortably into my palm, for it was exactly fist size.

A hand, a great meaty paw of a hand, came down from above and grabbed my shirt front and hauled me to my feet.

“So,” screamed a voice, “assault an officer, would you!”

His face swam in front of me, a red-smeared face twisted with his hatred, heavy with its meanness, gloating at the physical power he held over me.

I could feel my legs again and the face came clearer and the clot of faces in the background—the faces of the crowd, pressing close to be in at the kill.

One did not give up, I told myself, remembering back to all those other times I had not given up. As long as one was on his feet, he fought, and even when he was down and could not get up, he did not admit defeat.

Both of his hands were clutching at my shirt front, his face pushed close toward mine, I clenched my fist and my fingers closed hard around the rock and then I swung. I swung with everything I had, putting every ounce of strength I could muster behind the swinging fist—swinging from the waist in a jolting upward jab, and I caught him on the chin.

His head snapped back, pivoting on the thick, bull neck. He staggered and his fingers loosened and he crumpled, sprawling in the street.

I stepped back a pace and stood looking down at him and everything was clearer now and I knew I had a body, a bruised and beaten body that ached, it seemed, in every joint and muscle. But that didn't matter; it didn't mean a thing—for the first time in my life I'd knocked Hiram Martin down. I'd used a rock to do it and I didn't give a damn. I hadn't meant to pick up that rock—I'd just found it and closed my fingers on it. I had not planned to use it, but now that I had it made no difference to me. If I'd had time to plan, I'd probably have planned to use it.

Someone leaped out from the crowd toward me and I saw it was Tom Preston.

“You going to let him get away with it?” Preston was screaming at the crowd. “He hit an officer! He hit him with a rock! He picked up a rock!”

Another man pushed out of the crowd and grabbed Preston by the shoulder, lifting him and setting him back in the forefront of the crowd.

“You keep out of this,” Gabe Thomas said.

“But he used a rock!” screamed Preston.

“He should have used a club,” said Gabe. “He should have beat his brains out.”

Hiram was stirring, sitting up. His hand reached for his gun.

“Touch that gun,” I told him. “Just one finger on it and, so help me, I'll kill you.”

Hiram stared at me. I must have been a sight. He'd worked me over good and he'd mussed me up a lot and still I'd knocked him down and was standing on my feet.

“He hit you with a rock,” yelped Preston. “He hit …”

Gabe reached out and his fingers fitted neatly around Preston's skinny throat. He squeezed and Preston's mouth flapped open and his tongue came out.

“You keep out of it,” said Gabe.

“But Hiram's an officer of the law,” protested Charley Hutton. “Brad shouldn't have hit an officer.”

“Friend,” Gabe told the tavern owner, “he's a damn poor officer. No officer worth his salt goes picking fights with people.”

I'd never taken my eyes off Hiram and he'd been watching me, but now he flicked his eyes to one side and his hand dropped to the ground.

And in that moment I knew that I had won—not because I was the stronger, not because I fought the better (for I wasn't and I hadn't) but because Hiram was a coward, because he had no guts, because, once hurt, he didn't have the courage to chance being hurt again. And I knew, too, that I need not fear the gun he carried, for Hiram Martin didn't have it in him to face another man and kill him.

Hiram got slowly to his feet and stood there for a moment. His hand came up and felt his jaw. Then he turned his back and walked away. The crowd, watching silently, parted to make a path for him.

I stared at his retreating back and a fierce, bloodthirsty satisfaction rose up inside of me. After more than twenty years, I'd beaten this childhood enemy. But, I told myself, I had not beat him fair—I'd had to play dirty to triumph over him. But I found it made no difference. Dirty fight or fair, I had finally licked him.

The crowd moved slowly back. No one spoke to me. No one spoke to anyone.

“I guess,” said Gabe, “there are no other takers. If there were, they'd have to fight me, too.”

“Thanks, Gabe,” I said.

“Thanks, hell,” he said. “I didn't do a thing.”

I opened up my fist and the rock dropped to the street. In the silence, it made a terrible clatter.

Gabe hauled a huge red handkerchief out of his rear pocket and stepped over to me. He put a hand back of my head to hold it steady and began to wipe my face.

“In a month or so,” he said, by way of comfort, “you'll look all right again.”

“Hey, Brad,” yelled someone, “who's your friend?”

I couldn't see who it was who yelled. There were so many people.

“Mister,” yelled someone else, “be sure you wipe his nose.”

“Go on!” roared Gabe. “Go on! Any of you wisecrackers walk out here in plain sight and I'll dust the street with you.”

Grandma Jones said in a loud voice, so that Pappy Andrews could hear, “He's the trucker fellow that smashed Brad's car. Appears to me if Brad has to fight someone, he should be fighting him.”

“Big mouth,” yelled back Pappy Andrews. “He's got an awful big mouth.”

I saw Nancy standing by the gate and she had the same look on her face that she'd had when we were kids and I had fought Hiram Martin then. She was disgusted with me. She had never held with fighting; she thought that it was vulgar.

The front door burst open and Gerald Sherwood came running down the walk. He rushed over and grabbed me by the arm.

“Come on,” he shouted. “The senator called. He's out there waiting for you, on the east end of the road.”

18

Four of them were waiting for me on the pavement just beyond the barrier. A short distance down the road several cars were parked. A number of state troopers were scattered about in little groups. Half a mile or so to the north the steam shovel was still digging.

I felt foolish walking down the road toward them while they waited for me. I knew that I must look as if the wrath of God had hit me.

My shirt was torn and the left side of my face felt as though someone had sandpapered it. I had deep gashes on the knuckles of my right hand where I'd smacked Hiram in the teeth and my left eye felt as if it were starting to puff up.

Someone had cleared away the windrow of uprooted vegetation for several rods on either side of the road, but except for that, the windrow was still there.

As I got close, I recognized the senator. I had never met the man, but I'd seen his pictures in the papers. He was stocky and well-built and his hair was white and he never wore a hat. He was dressed in a double-breasted suit and he had a bright blue tie with white polka dots.

One of the others was a military man. He wore stars on his shoulders. Another was a little fellow with patent leather hair and a tight, cold face. The fourth man was somewhat undersized and chubby and had eyes of the brightest china blue I had ever seen.

I walked until I was three feet or so away from them and it was not until then that I felt the first slight pressure of the barrier. I backed up a step and looked at the senator.

“You must be Senator Gibbs,” I said. “I'm Bradshaw Carter. I'm the one Sherwood talked with you about.”

“Glad to meet you, Mr. Carter,” said the senator. “I had expected that Gerald would be with you.”

“I wanted him to come,” I said, “but he felt he shouldn't. There was a conflict of opinion in the village. The mayor wanted to appoint a committee and Sherwood opposed it rather violently.”

The senator nodded. “I see,” he said. “So you're the only one we'll see.”

“If you want others …”

“Oh, not at all,” he said. “You are the man with the information?”