Nightmare Alley (24 page)

“Take down your pants.”

That was to add to the shame: nakedness.

Stan fumbled with the belt of his knickers, stalling for split seconds.

“Hurry up. I said drop ’em.”

His knickers bound his feet about the ankles. He couldn’t run. He had to take it. “Now bend over.” A hand on his shoulder pushed him into the patch of moonlight, where his nakedness could show. Stan saw the shadow of the strop rise and braced himself. The pain split its way up to his brain in waves and he bit his lip, his breath catching at the bottom of his lungs. He pushed his knuckles in his mouth so they wouldn’t hear him next door. The moonlight was a fuzzy blur of tears; and the strop, when it struck the roundness of his bare flesh, made a sound that got to his brain before the stab of pain—and the rope’s end, tied to the leg of the workbench there in the smell of oil and gasoline on the day when the sun went out.

Downstairs Charlie Carlisle fidgeted with his napkin, pushing himself back in the chair by bracing his hands against its polished arms. “Confound it, Clara, what d’you s’pose the boy’s doing up there? Oh, there you are, son. Sit right down.”

When Charlie raised his glance to the man who entered the dining room he caught his old, quick breath at something he saw. It was Stan, much as he had appeared a few minutes before. Maybe with his face fresh-washed and his hair damped down a little. But in the set of the shoulders was something strange. And when old Charlie met his son’s eyes they were a sharper blue than any he had ever seen before; as hard as a frozen pond.

The Great Stanton pulled back a chair and sat down swiftly and gracefully, opening his napkin with a single snap. Mrs. Carlisle brought in a platter of chicken. When rice and gravy arrived Charlie said, “Sit down, Clara. Quit running in and out. Stan’ll pronounce the blessing.”

The Rev. Carlisle ran his hands once over his hair and took a deep breath. His voice came resonantly:

“Almighty God, our heavenly father, we thank Thee from the bottom of our hearts for what we are about to receive. We come to Thee steeped in sin and corruption, our hearts black with guilt, knowing that in the river of Thy forgiveness they will be washed as white as snow.”

His father had slid one heavily veined hand over his eyes.

“He who watches the sparrow’s fall will hold us in the hollow of his hand to the end of our days, on earth and beyond.”

Clara was frowning in bewilderment or worrying about the chicken getting cold.

“… in the name of thy son, our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, we ask it. Amen.”

The old man said “Amen” and then grinned weakly at his wife. “No matter what denomination, Clara, it’s a proud day when we can have a son saying grace and him a preacher. Pass Stan the rice.”

Clara was not one to eat in silence. She began a brief history of the community during the past sixteen years, full of hot summers, hard winters, deaths, births, weddings, and disasters.

Stan ate quickly and took a second helping of everything. At last he slid his plate away from him and lit a cigarette. He looked at Clara Carpenter Carlisle for a long minute; the penetrating blue glance made her conscious of the old apron over her good dress.

“My dear friend, have you ever thought that these persons whom you have mourned as dead will never die?”

Under that brilliant stare she began to simper and found it difficult to control her hands. “Why, Stan, I—I’ve always
believed
. But I think it’s one of those things you just have to feel. I never paid much attention. I took it for granted, about heaven.”

The Rev. Carlisle wiped his lips with his napkin and took a swallow of water. “I have seen magnificent proofs that the spirit does not lie fallow until the Day of Judgment. The spirits of the liberated are around us every moment. How often have we said, in anguish, ‘If only I could speak to him again. And feel the touch of his hand.’ ”

Both the older Carlisles looked embarrassed, eyed one another and then each took a sip of coffee.

Stan’s mellow voice rolled on. “Yes. And the glorious truth is that it can be done. The spirits of the liberated are around us even now, as we speak.” His eyes were still on Clara; he dropped his voice. “I feel one presence beside me now, distinctly. Insistently. Trying to get through.”

On his father’s face was the suggestion of a sly grin.

“It is one who loved me in its earth existence. But it is not human.”

They stared at him.

“A small spirit, a humble presence. But brimming with devotion and loyalty. I believe it is the spirit of my old dog, Gyp.” Charles Carlisle had slumped forward, his arms before him on the tablecloth, but now he sat up straighter, the bitter lines around his mouth deeper and more biting.

“Son, you don’t believe that! That’s blasphemous! You can’t mean it—about a dog having a soul same as a man.”

Stan smiled. “As I said before, I shall not try to convert you, Dad. Only the ones who have passed over into spirit life can do that. But I have communicated with Gyp—not in words, naturally, since Gyp did not speak in words. Yet this house is full of his presence. He has spoken to me, trying to tell me something.” Watching his father keenly, Stan noticed a little flash of alarm on the wrecked face. He covered his eyes with his hand, watching his father’s hands on the cloth before him, and bore in:

“Something about his last day on earth. I remember you told me, when I came home from school, that you had had a veterinary chloroform Gyp. But there’s some contradiction, here. I get another impression …”

A pulse was beginning to pound in the shrunken wrist.

“Gyp has been trying to tell me something … wait a minute … the garage!”

His father’s hands clenched into fists and then released the tablecloth, which they had seized.

“That’s it … I see it clearly before me. Gyp is tied to the leg of the workbench in the garage. I see something rising and falling … in anger … faster and faster.”

The clatter of a fork on the floor made Stan look up. The old man’s face was ashy; he kept shaking his head, trying to speak. “No. No, son. Don’t.”

“That was the day—the day Mother left. With Mark Humphries. You came home and found her note. Gyp got in your way—you had to vent your temper on something. If I’d been home you’d have licked me. But Gyp got it. He died.”

Old Carlisle had heaved to his feet, one hand clawing at his shirt collar. Stan turned, swaying a little, and walked stiffly through the doors into the living room, across it to the hall. When he took down his hat and coat his arms felt numb and heavy. One last glimpse of Clara shaking capsules from a bottle and holding a glass of water; the old man swallowing painfully.

The moon brightened concrete steps leading down the terrace where the grass was ragged. Stan’s legs felt stiff as he descended to the street where the arching maples closed over him, moonlight showering through their leaves now black with night. A sound came from the house he had left, an old man weakly crying.

In a patch of silver the Rev. Carlisle stopped and raised his face to the full moon, where it hung desolately, agonizingly bright—a dead thing, watching the dying earth.

W
HEN
Molly woke up the third time, Stan was dressing. She looked at the clock: four-thirty. “Where you going?”

“Out.”

She didn’t question him, but lay awake watching. His movements were so jumpy lately you didn’t dare speak to him for fear he would bite your head off. Lately he had been sleeping worse and worse, and Molly worried about him taking so many sleeping pills all the time. They didn’t have any more effect on him, it seemed, and his temper got worse and he looked like hell. She began to cry softly and Stan stopped in the middle of buttoning his shirt and came over.

“Now what?”

“Nothing. Nothing. I’m all right.”

“What’s eating you, kid?”

“Stan—” Molly sat up, holding the covers in front of her for warmth. “Stan, let’s quit and go back to the old act.”

He went on buttoning. “Where we going to book it? On street corners? Vaudeville’s a dead pigeon. I know what I’m doing. One live John and we’re set.”

She drew the covers up tighter. “Honey, you look like hell. Why don’t you go see a doctor? I—I mean give you something for your nerves or something. Honest, I’m worried sick you’re going to have a nervous breakdown or something.”

He rubbed his eyes. “I’m going out for a walk.”

“It’s snowing.”

“I’ve got to get out, do you hear? I’m going down to the church and look over the props. I’ve got an idea I want to try out. Go back to sleep.”

It was no use. He would just keep going until he dropped and Molly prayed it wouldn’t happen some time in the middle of a reading—or of a séance, where it would blow up the whole works. If anybody made trouble the cops would nail her along with Stan and in the shape Stan was in he couldn’t talk his way out of a jam no matter how bad it was. Molly was worried sick and took half a sleeping pill herself when he had gone.

It was too early to go out and get a racing form, and all the magazines were old, and nothing was on the radio except platter programs, and they made her feel so lonesome—records being dedicated to the boys in Ed’s Diner out on the turnpike. She wished she was in the diner with the truck drivers having a few laughs.

Stan let himself into the old Peabody house. He was glad he had banked the furnace the night before; down in the cellar he threw in more coal. Soon the fire was roaring and he stood with the heat on his face, watching blue flames feel their way up through the black coal.

After a moment he sighed, shook himself, and unlocked an old metal cabinet which had once held paint and varnish. Inside was a phonograph turntable which he switched on, placing a pickup arm into position above the aluminum record. Then he went upstairs.

The vast room which had been a parlor and a dining room before he knocked the partition out, was still chilly. Stan turned on the lamps. The bridge chairs sat in empty rows, waiting for something to happen to him—something to go wrong. Walking over to a lamp with a dead bulb, he snapped the switch, gave the amplifying tubes a minute to warm up, then crossed to the desk, where the trumpet usually lay at the developmental classes and trumpet séances.

Near the organ his foot, from long habit, found the loosened board beneath the carpet, and he put his weight on it. Ghostly, with the sound of a voice through a metal tube, came the deep tones of Ramakrishna, his spirit guide. “
Hari Aum
. Greetings, my beloved
chelas
, my disciples of earth life. You who have gathered here tonight.” The voice stopped; Stan felt a crawling fear flowing over his scalp. The wiring must have broken again. And there was no time to rip it out. Or was it the loudspeaker? Or the motor? He ran down to the cellar; but the disc was still revolving. It must be in the amplifying unit. There was no time to fix it. The séance was scheduled for that evening. He could always blame it on conditions; a séance without phenomena was common enough for all mediums. But Mrs. Prescott was bringing two trusted friends, both social register. He had looked up all the dope on them and the recording was ready. They might not come back. They might be the ones who would bring in the live John he was waiting for.

Stan took off his coat and put on an old smock; he checked the tubes, the wiring. Then he went back upstairs and began to pry the panel loose. The loudspeaker connections were tight enough. Where was the break? And there was no time, no time, no time. He thought of a dozen stalls to tell a radio repairman, and threw them all out. Once he let anyone know the house was wired he was sunk. He thought of getting a repairman from Newark or somewhere. But there was no one he could trust.

Loneliness came over him, like an avalanche of snow. He was alone. Where he had always wanted to be. You can only trust yourself. There’s a rat buried deep in everybody and they’ll rat on you if they get pushed far enough. Every new face that showed up at the séances now seemed charged with suspicion and malice and sly knowledge. Could there be a cabal forming against him in the church?

Frantically he switched on the phonograph again and stepped on the board. “
Hari Aum
. Greetings, my beloved
chelas
, my disciples of earth life …” It wasn’t broken! The last time he must have shifted his weight unconsciously off the loose board that closed the circuit. He stopped it now with a chilling fear that the next words the voice, his own voice, would say would not be words he had recorded on aluminum—the record would turn on him with a malevolent life of its own.