Crawlspace (26 page)

Richard’s facility with the guns was frankly astounding. In his hands the ugly things took on a quality of grace, and he could make them behave as if they were adjuncts of his body. His hands flashing over the bolts gave him the look of an extremely adroit magician doing marvels. Several people in the store paused in spite of themselves to watch him and gaze in frank admiration.

“Which one do you think we want, Richard?” I asked, after a moment. He paused, silently regarding each, checking their sights and peering down their barrels. At last he held one of the guns out toward me. “This is the one.”

He chose a 30/30 with an automatic load of six cartridges. I chose for myself a Smith-Wesson .45 pistol. When we left there that morning we had our weapons and a full supply of ammunition.

That afternoon Richard and I went down to the bottom of the garden. We set up a row of empty tin cans and commenced our educations. That education lasted for a period of nearly three days, during which time we worked steadily at perfecting our use of each weapon, both of us alternating between rifle and pistol.

Nothing of any particular importance happened within those three days to interrupt our training, either, except that within that period, on four separate occasions, Emil Birge’s green station wagon cruised slowly past the front of our house. Never once did he stop to chat or say hello or even to continue his pretense of being a dedicated civil servant concerned with our safety. His appearance was more in the manner of a military reconnaissance—an intelligence-gathering mission upon which future activities would undoubtedly be determined.

Richard and I with rifle and pistol gave him, no doubt, sufficient to think about.

I have always been a believer in law and order. I have always believed, or tried to believe, that justice serves man and that the good are protected from the evil by the forces of justice. I know now that I’ve been naive.

It’s sad to reach somewhere beyond mid-life and discover that you’ve lived your life in a kind of mindless, undiscerning daze, rather like an infant in a nursery of your own creation. Think of me—a man of peace and good will, certainly not an impetuous man, but a wary and prudent man with all of the ailments and complaints of the aged—suddenly reverting to the rule of guns. I who had observed the law all of my life, eschewed violence, and believed childishly that justice was done in the courts.

And I hasten to point out that it was never my intention to use my guns immorally; that is, to prey on the weak or slaughter God’s creatures. My only purpose in having guns was as a means of survival. And I must say that guns brought me the peace that Sheriff Birge declined to bring me. At least for a while. Then, as so often is the case with guns—you buy them to insure and protect your own peace and suddenly you find your guns have commenced to breed more guns and lo, you are at war.

From the very first day they came into the house, Alice hated the guns. She hated their noise, she hated the sight of them, and she hated to see me handle them. Right from the start she was accusing Richard of talking me into buying the guns and saying that by doing so I’d unwittingly escalated the tension that already existed around us.

One day she endured a particularly grueling afternoon of target practice, and it set her teeth on edge. That night, when Richard was out of the house, she suddenly put down her knitting and said, “I want the guns out of the house.”

I looked at her for a moment, then continued reading my paper.

“Albert—did you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“I want the guns out of the house.”

“And the hoodlums in your house, I s’pose.”

“Better the hoodlums in the house than the guns. Let them do to us what they will.”

“You talk very bravely in their absence.” I kept my face in my paper as I spoke.

“We’ve never had to live with guns in our house before,” she went on, undaunted. “I don’t see why we have to now.”

“You don’t!” I folded my paper and slammed it shut on my lap. “What do you propose to do when that bunch of lovelies come back here some night? Call of Birge?”

Her gaze faltered and dropped. She looked as if I’d struck her. I went on: “You don’t suppose they’re finished with us, do you?”

“They would be,” she said, her cheeks flamed, “if only—”

“If only I’d send him away.”

“Well, why not?” she said, half rising. A ball of yellow yarn tumbled from her lap and rolled ridiculously by me. I stuck a foot out and trapped it under my heel. When I got it, I flung it back at her, much harder than I’d intended. She tried to catch it, but she couldn’t. Instead, the ball of yam struck her high on the head and bounced off somewhere behind the sofa. She was on her feet the next moment and shouting, “You said you were going to send him away. You promised—”

“I promised no such thing—”

“You he.”

“Don’t say that, Alice.”

“It’s true, nevertheless.”

“If I ever said such a thing,” I spoke through gnashing teeth, “it was before all this business. You wouldn’t put him out now.”

“Why not?” she said. “Why not?”

“Why not?” I was a little stunned and speechless. She went on:

“His presence here is a threat to our lives. I should think you’d care enough—”

Suddenly I was laughing out loud. It was a scornful, withering laugh and it took her aback.

“When I think of all those fancy speeches!” I said.

“What speeches?”

“Those lovely little things about awakening motherhood. I was the one who never wanted a child. Remember? I was the one who got tired of playing father. Remember? I was the one who wanted him out of the house. Remember?”

She appeared to stumble and then sag under that hail of blows. All the starch was out of her. She had a stricken, pathetic look. But she went on feebly:

“Yes, but—”

“Yes, but—” I said in a whiny imitation of her. “Now when the chips are down, you’re tired of playing mother and you’re ready to toss your pup to the wolves outside.”

“Yes,” she said hotly, looking a little like a cornered animal.

“You really want me to knuckle under to that filth out there?”

“Yes.”

“And to Birge and Horn and that pious, priggish band of little freaks that call themselves a Christian congregation?”

“Yes.”

“And to that pack of thugs who come here at night like vigilantes?”

“Yes. Yes.” She’d recovered all her starch and a little more to boot. “Yes, I do!” she said, and the next moment she was back on her feet, her eyes blazing, and stomping up the parlor toward me. When she reached me she planted herself squarely before me, the ball of yarn clutched in her fist. “To save our necks!” she screamed. “If you don’t care enough about that, at least I do. I want the guns out. And I want him out!”

As she said it, she flung the yarn wildly back at me. It struck harmlessly above my eye and glanced off. She was still shouting as she whirled to go. But her voice trailed off like a dying phonograph and suddenly she was staring at the parlor door, a look of sick surprise on her face—staring at the door where Richard Atlee stood, where he had been standing for the past few moments, erect and rigid, filling the frame of it, and regarding her quietly.

Still, if we didn’t have domestic peace, we at least had peace from the nocturnal visitations of strangers in unlit cars. We breathed easier and our life took on, once again, a semblance of normalcy.

I say “a semblance of normalcy.” Still—there were very troublesome aspects to our days. One of these was that the freedom of movement we so enjoyed in past years was simply no more. In our little village, where for the past several years we’d done our banking and all our marketing, we were suddenly pariahs. Not that people refused to sell us goods or to transact with us; I would’ve preferred that; it would’ve been more honest. Instead, while perfectly willing to take our money, they were at the same time cold and rude. Nor were these isolated cases; it was general and throughout—the kind of tacit mealy-mouthed conspiracy that small-town folk appear to excel in.

This was true of all the merchants and bankers in the village with the single exception of Chester Washburn at the service station. On the several occasions during this period that we went into the village and bought gasoline, he appeared to make a conscious effort to extend himself. By this, I don’t mean to imply that he slapped our backs and invited us in for coffee and cake, but as he filled our tank and checked the oil he would now make a few conversational thrusts, and instead of gazing stonily off into space, he now deigned to look at us. For Washburn that was no mean accomplishment.

That summer was unnaturally hot. Day after day the temperature soared well above the 90s. From about 11 A.M. on, you couldn’t go out in the sun. The days were sultry, the nights balmy and insufferable. There was no respite from the heat and humidity in the day, and no sleep at night. You wrung out your clothes at dusk and suffocated in your sheets at night.

On top of all this a terrible drought had struck that part of the country. There was no rain, and no hope of it. The grasses and foliage all quickly withered and turned brown. Very shortly the countryside looked as if it had been put to the torch. We tried watering our lawns and shrubberies, but because the water levels were so precariously low, there were very severe restrictions on how much water might be used for this purpose. The amount was not enough to save our grass and plantings, and the sun, like a ball of white fire, bore down remorselessly, day after day.

Between the barely veiled hostility of our neighbors and the inclemency of the weather, we frankly wanted out. At least for a few months until things cooled down all around. Quite unexpectedly one day, Alice and I decided that we’d like to go up north to the mountains. Only two hundred and fifty or three hundred miles north of where we were the radio was reporting superb weather—cool dry days and chilly, sleepful nights.

It sounded like a perfect remedy for our ills, and so simple. But, of course, there was the matter of Richard. We couldn’t just go off and leave him. In fact, we couldn’t even discuss the matter with him. The mere mention of our going off anywhere by ourselves pitched him headlong into attacks of the greatest anxiety. He’d become sullen and moody and would watch our every movement like a cat.

Nor would we consider going off and leaving him there by himself. Alice, if urged, might’ve been prevailed upon to leave him behind. As for myself, the thought of Birge and night vigilantes, the memory of strewn crockery and coffee splashed across the kitchen walls, of Harlowe Petrie’s greenhouse, was still too fresh in my mind. Leaving him there was out of the question. Taking him with us, however, was not.

I confess I approached the whole thing full of misgivings. I wasn’t looking forward to transporting Richard two or three hundred miles northward. It wasn’t as if he were any other normal human being. We’d have to go to restaurants and hotels. There’d be the stir upon our arrival, the usual looks of shock and amusement. I’m not a superman. I’ve never pretended to be. I’m a very private sort of man, full of ungainly self-consciousness in crowds. I deplore public scenes, and the thought of being the object of one is enough to produce a line of cold sweat up and down the length of my spine. Even to be witness to such a scene is enough to make me wish to be invisible.

As for Alice, I knew that such a trip, under such circumstances could only be unpleasant and trying for her. Yet, she was willing to undertake it, thinking just like me, that the best solution for us all was to leave the heat, the town, and the problem.

I asked Richard that very night, thinking he’d jump at the chance. His answer, while it shocked me, was typical:

“Why?” he said, cocking an eyebrow at me.

“Why?” I said. “I should think that’d be obvious. The weather’s miserable. Things around here are miserable—” I was cross and my voice had a nasty edge to it.

“Oh, look, Richard,” I said, suddenly apologetic. “Things around here are pretty unpleasant now. Mrs. Graves and I would frankly like to get off for a while. Up north they say it’s very cool. And up there nobody knows or gives a damn about this whole bloody business.”

He kept watching me warily as if he were trying to find something insidious in my suggestion. He had the look of a deer just catching the scent of wolves. I went on:

“It’s beautiful up there. High mountains. Deep, cold lakes. So cold you can barely get into them. Takes your breath away. Fisherman’s paradise. They’ve got some streams that have never been fished. I’ve caught brownies up there—” I indicated the size with my hands. “It’s a fisherman’s dream, Richard.” By that time I was glowing with excitement. And when I finished my little spiel I was ready to pack my bags and leave that very moment. I stared at him idiotically, looking for some sign of consent, pleading with my entire being for some small crumb of enthusiasm from him. But all I got for my trouble was a cold, belligerent glare.

“Richard—?”

“I ain’t goin’.”

I started toward him. He turned away. “I ain’t leavin’ here.”

“For God’s sake, why?”

“I ain’t goin’.”

“Why?”

“You know why. You know damned well why.”

“You think we’re gonna rim out on you up there? Ditch you by the side of the road or something? Is that it?”

“Yeah!” he shouted. The noise of it brought Alice flying in from the kitchen. He snapped his head in her direction. “She would. She would—She’d just love to—” The three of us stood there, glaring at each other, a strange trinity, frozen into a nightmare.

“You know, Richard,” I said, with a kind of whispered portentousness. “If we’d really wanted to do that, we could simply drive off any night while you’re sleeping—” Suddenly his eyes were blazing. His whole frame seemed in the midst of upheaval. His arms and legs went off in all different directions like a puppet driven by a mad puppeteer. “Try it!” he said venomously. “You just go ahead and try it! You’d be awful sorry if you did.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I said, nearly purple with anger. But he didn’t answer. Instead he stalked out, slamming the door so hard behind him that the frame shuddered. Several flakes of plaster wafted slowly down onto the kitchen floor.