The Howling Man (54 page)

It was impossible to believe that one man could have had the strength or the fury or the hatred to do what was done to Haber.

The blood-smeared thing in the photograph--I saw it as clearly as if I had been holding it in my hand--wasn't human. It was a pile of carrion, like a dog after a truck has run over it, or like meat that's been picked over by hawks.

And the unknown assailant . . . Who could tell?

I thought of nothing all day but this one thing, of Martin, little ineffectual Martin, with his musician's hands bloody, the vengeance out of him.

Next day I scrutinized the papers. They told of a disaster at sea. They spoke of senators and dogs and starlets. But they did not speak of John S. Parker.

Well, I thought, not even aware of my disappointment, well, perhaps he's biding his time. Perhaps tomorrow.

Things were the same at work. I recall that I considered that ironic--that things should be the same. Martin was there as usual, not smiling, not frowning, hurrying up and down the aisles of books with his broom, hurrying just as fast as his short legs would carry him--Switch! Switch!--and the dust clouds after him, plumed and rolling. Martin, with his clown's suit and his bushy brows and his bright ferret's eyes caught in their pasty prisons…

Outside, it was raining, the same rain that had fallen when 'John S. Parker' came to buy his set of Eliot. It was a gravel-spray on the roof, a steady monotonous dripping, drumming.

"Good morning, Martin," I said.

Stop; turn; silent smile; then, quick, back to the sweeping.

Somehow, I don't think I was surprised to hear him sing--although I ought to have been surprised. He did, softly, from the back of the store. Melodies in a minor key, sad, haunting, and so full of these things that when the customers came in they stopped and looked up from their books and listened, strangely moved.

All day he sang, as he might breathe. The second movement for the
Eroica
, the Allegretto from the Seventh symphony, Block and Dvorak and Tchaikovsky and Mahler, over and over, while he worked.

And I wanted to go to him and shake his hand grimly and tell him that I knew and understood, understood completely, and therefore did not blame him. I wanted to let him know that he could trust me. I would betray his secret to no one, and John S. Parker's unknown assailant would remain unknown, forever.

But, of course, I didn't say these things. I merely waited, watching the little man, listening to him, studying his face to see if it would give any hint of what lay beneath. I thought of him with the axe in his hands, swinging the axe, repaying the beefy German in full,

And the day wore on.

Next morning I got the first paper off the stand. I'd spent a sleepless night, tossing, arguing that it was better this way; that I must not call the police and spoil things.

But there was nothing in the paper. Or in any other paper.

And the day was the same.

I decided then that Parker's body had not been discovered yet. That was the answer. It was lying crumpled where Martin had left it three days ago! So I suffered through the hours and drove straight to the address Parker had given me.

It was a small stucco apartment, neat, old, respectable.

I knocked on the door, trembling.

John Parker opened the door. "Yes?" he said, his voice heavily accented. "Yes?"

"We have a lead on those Eliot's," I said. "I happened to be passing by and thought you might like to know."

"Thank you, young man. That was nice. Thank you."

I looked at him as one would at a corpse suddenly brought to life, his wounds made well, his torn flesh whole.

Then I went home and tried to laugh.

But laughing is a lonely thing when you've no one to share the joke. So I went back outside and drank whiskey until I couldn't think about the little man.

Next day Martin didn't show up for work. He called up and said he was sick.

He never came back.

But John Parker did. The big man with the crooked nose still comes up to browse through the books, every now and then. I chat with him: he even calls me Len now. But I don't like him. Not a bit.

Because he makes me think of Martin. Because he makes me wonder if I'd been so wrong, after all, if my imagination had run quite so wild.

Perhaps Martin did find what he had been looking for. And perhaps, once finding it, he had decided it was not worth having, or that he lacked the strength to keep it. And perhaps John S. Parker is something more than John S. Parker.

And perhaps not.

I'm afraid I'll never know. But I'm also afraid that I'll never forget the little man with the bright eyes and the hurrying feet and the sad face.

I hope he's still taking his medicine, wherever he is.

The cool October rain and the wind blowing the rain. The green and yellow fields melting into grey hills, into grey sky and black clouds. And everywhere, the smell of autumn drinking the coolness, the evening coolness gathering in leaves and wheat alfalfa, running down fat brown bark, whispering through rich grass to tiny living things.

The cool rain, glistening on earth and on smooth cement.

"
Come on, Lars, I'll beat you!
"

"
Like fun you will!
"

Two boys with fresh wet faces and cold wet hands.

"Last one there is a sissy!"

Wild shouts through the stillness and a scrambling onto bicycles. A furious pedaling through sharp pinpoints of rain, one boy pulling ahead of the other, straining up the shining cement, laughing and calling.

"Just try and catch me now, just try!"

"I'll catch you all right, you wait!"

"Last one there is a sissy, last one there is a sissy!"

Faster now, flying past the crest of the hill, faster down the hill and into the blinding rain. Faster, small feet turning, wheels spinning, along the smooth level. Flying, past outdoor signs and sleeping cows, faster, past strawberry fields and haystacks, little excited blurs of barns and houses and siloes.

"Okay, I'm going to beat you, I'm going to beat you!"

A thin voice lost in the wind.

"I'll get to the trestle 'way before you, just watch!"

Lars Nielson pushed the pedals angrily and strained his young body forward, gripping the handlebars and singing for more speed. He felt the rain whipping through his hair and into his ears and he screamed happily.

He closed his eyes and listened to his voice, to the slashing wind and to the wheels of his bicycle turning in the wetness. Whizzing baseballs in his head, swooping chicken hawks and storm currents racing over beds of light leaves.

He did not hear the small voice crying to him, far in the distance.

"Who's the sissy, who'll be the sissy?" Lars Nielson sang to the whirling world beside him and his legs pushed harder and harder.

His eyes were closed, so he did not see the face of the frightened man. His ears were full, so he did not hear the screams and the brakes and all the other terrible sounds. The sudden, strange unfamiliar sounds that were soft and quiet as those in his mind were loud.

He pushed his young legs in the black darkness, harder, faster, faster…

The room was mostly blue. In the places where it had not chipped and cracked, the linoleum floor was a deep quiet blue. The walls, specially handpattered, were soft greenish blue. And the rows of dishes on high display shelves, the paint on the cane rockers, the tablecloth, Mother's dress, Father's tie--all blue.

Even the smoke from Father's pipe, creeping and slithering up into the thick air like long blue ghosts of long blue snakes.

Lars sat quietly, watching the blue.

"Henrik." Mrs. Nielson stopped her rocking.

"Yes, yes?"

"It is by now nine o'clock."

Mr. Nielson took a large gold watch from his vest pocket.

"It is, you are right. Lars, it is nine o'clock."

Lars nodded his head.

"So." Mr. Nielson rose from his chair and stretched his arms. "It is time. Say goodnight to your mama."

"Goodnight, Mama."

"Goodnight."

"So."

Mr. Nielson took the wooden bar in his big hands and pushed the chair gently past the doorway and down the hall. With his foot he pushed the door open and when they were inside the bedroom, he pulled the string which turned on the electric light.

He walked to the front of the chair.

"Lars, you feel all right now? Nothing hurts?"

"No, Papa. Nothing hurts."

Mr. Nielson put his hands into his pockets and sat on the sideboard of the bed.

"Mama is worried."

"Mama shouldn't."

"She did not like for you to be mean to the dog."

"I wasn't mean."

"You did not play with it. I watched, you did not talk to the dog. Boys should like dogs and Mama is worried. Already she took it away."

Lars sat silently.

"I'm sorry, Papa."

"It isn't right, my son, that you should do nothing. For your sake I say this."

"Papa, I'm tired."

"Three years, you do nothing. See, look in the mirror, see at how pale you are getting. Sick pale, no color."

Lars looked away from the mirror.

"I tell you over and over, you must read or study or play games."

"Play games, Papa . . . ?"

Mr. Nielson began to pace about the room.

"Sure, certainly. Games. You can, you can make them up. Play them in your head. You don't have to run around and wave your arms to play games!"

Lars looked down, where the carpet lay thin and unmoving.

"But you do nothing. All day I work, and
hard
I work, lifting many pounds, and I come home tired. All day I use my arms and feet and back and I do not want to any more, when I come home, so I don't. I sit in the chair and read. I
read
, Lars, and I smoke my pipe and I talk to Mama. I sit still, like you, but I do something!"

With Mr. Nielson's agitated movement, the room started to pick at the Feeling. Lars concentrated on white.

"And it don't take my arms and legs to do it. They are tired, they are every way like yours. I am you at night, Lars. And I am old, but I don't sit with nothing. I am always playing games,
in my head
. I don't move, but I don't worry Mama who loves me. I don't move, but I don't say nothing to my Mama and Papa, ever, just sit staring!"

"I'm sorry, Papa."

"Yes, for
yourself
you are sorry! You are sixteen years old and should be thinking about how to live, how to get along when Papa is no more here to take care of you and there is no money."

"Yes, Papa."

"Then begin to think, Lars. When I come home at night, let me see you talking to Mama, planning things with your brain. The big men are big because of their brains, my son, not their arms and legs. Nothing is wrong with your brain, you didn't hurt it. You have time to learn, to learn anything!"

"I will begin to think, Papa."

Mr. Nielson rubbed his hands together. They made a rough grating sound.

"All right. Tomorrow you tell Mama you are sorry and want to play with the dog. She will get it back for you, and you should smile and thank her and talk to the dog."

"I--I can go to bed now?"

"Yes."

Mr. Nielson leaned forward and slid one arm behind Lars' back, another beneath his legs.

"We are not like others," he said slowly. "When I am gone, there will be nothing, no money. Don't you see why you got to--are you ready?"

Mr. Nielson lifted Lars from the wheelchair and laid him on the bed. He sucked on his pipe as he removed shirt, trousers, stocking, shoes and underwear; grunted slightly as he pulled a faded tan nightgown over heavy lengths of steel and rubber.

Then he smiled, broadly.

"You should say big prayers tonight, my son. You have worried Mama but even so, tomorrow is a surprise."

Lars tried to lift his head. Father stood near the bed, but in the corner, so the big smiling face was hidden.

"Tomorrow, Papa?"

"I tell you nothing now. But you are a young man now, nearly, and you have promised me that you will begin to think. Isn't that what you promised, Lars?"

"Yes."

"So. And I believe you. No longer coming home to see you sitting with no thoughts. I believe you and so, tomorrow you get your reward. Tomorrow you will see happiness and it will clear your head; then you will be a man!"

Lars stopped trying to move his head. He closed his eyes so that he would not have to stare at the electric light bulb.

"Hah, but I don't tell you. Say
big
prayers, my son. It is going to be good for you from now on."

"I will say my prayers tonight, Papa."

"Goodnight, now. You sleep."

"Tell Mama--that I'm sorry."

Mr. Nielson pulled the greasy string and the room became black but for the coals in his pipe.

Lars waited for the door to close and Father's footsteps to stop. Then he moved his lips, rapidly, quietly, fashioning the prayers he had invented. To a still, unmoving God, that he could stay forever in the motionless room, to fight the Feeling. That he could think of colors and nothing and keep the Feeling--the feet across meadows, the arms trembling with heavy pitchforks full of hay, all the parts of life--in a small corner in a far side of his mind.

Lars prayed, as Father had suggested. His head did not move when sleep came at last.

"You did not tell him, Henrik?" Mrs. Nielson rocked back and forth in the blue cane chair, breaking green beans into small pieces and throwing the pieces into an enamel wash-basin.

"No."

"He never was to one--there never was one in Mt. Sinai since I can remember."

"Once when I worked for the fruit company it came here but we were very busy and I could not go."

"Henrik, do you think, will it
really
be good for him?"

"Good? Mama, you do not know. When I went to that one in Snohomish I did not have a job to work or money. I just went to look and I didn't spend anything. But there was all the people, everybody in the town, and all laughing. Everybody, laughing. And so much to see!" Mr. Nielson began to chuckle. "Shows and machines and good livestock like you never saw. And funny, crazy people in a tent. Oh Mama, when I went home I was happy too. I didn't worry. Right after, I got a job and met you!"

Mr. Nielson slapped his knees.

"How many? Twenty years ago, but see, see how I remember! Lars will be no more like this when he sees all the laughing. He will come home like I did. But I didn't tell him. He don't know."

A cat scratched at the screen and Mrs. Nielson rose to open the door. She sniffed the air.

"Raining."

Mr. Nielson took up his newspaper.

"Henrik, he can't go on the rides."

"So? I went on no rides."

"What can he do?"

"Do? He can see all the people laughing. And he can see the shows and play with the dice--"

"No!"

"Mama, he is sixteen, almost a man. He will paly with the dice, he will say, and I will throw them. And he will see the frogs jump. And I will take him to the tent with the funny people. The brain, Mama, the
brain!
That is what enjoys the carnival, not arms and legs. That is what will make Lars understand."

"Yes, Henrik. We must cheer him up. Maybe after, we can bring him the dog and he will play with it."

"Sure, certainly, he will. He will be happy, not alone in this house, feeling sorry for himself."

"Yes."

"It will start him to think. He will think about how to make for himself a living, like anybody else. And he will read books then, you'll see, and find out what he wants to do. With his brain!"

Mrs. Nielson paused before speaking.

"Henrik."

"Yes?"

"What
can
he do, like you say, with his brain, without arms and legs?"

"He has arms and legs!"

"As well not, as well no back, no body."

"Hilda! He
must
do something, something. Look at that blind woman who can't hear, like we read in the magazine--she did something. Can't you see, Mama, can you not understand? I would take care of Lars, even if it is wrong. But you know the railroad will give only enough for you when I die, and I am not young. We married late, Mama, very late. If Lars does nothing, how will he live? Is it an institution for our boy, a home for cripples where he sees only cripples all day long, no sunshine, no happiness? For Lars? No! At the carnival tomorrow he will see and begin to think. Maybe to write, or teach or--something!"

"But he has not been from the house, since--"

"More reason, more!"

Mrs. Nielson broke beans loudly. Kindling crackled in the big cast-iron stove.

"This blind woman you say about, Henrik. She has feet to walk."

"Lars has eyes to see."

"This woman has hands to use."

"Lars has ears to hear, a brain to think, a tongue to talk!"

The cat scratched sharp sounds from the linoleum.

Mrs. Nielson rocked back and forth.

"This woman has money and friends. She never saw or heard, she cannot remember."

Mr. Nielson went to the sink and drew water from the faucet, into a glass. He drank the water quickly.

"So, then Lars has a heavier Cross and a greater reward."

"Yes, Henrik."

"You will see, Mama, you will see. After the carnival, he will know what he wants to do. He will begin to think.

Mrs. Nielson rose and dusted the bean fragments from her lap, into the washbasin. She picked up the cat and went outside onto the porch. Then she returned and snapped the lock on the door.

"Maybe you are right, Henrik. Maybe anyway he will like little dogs and talk to me. I hope so, I hope so."

Mr. Nielson wiped his hands on the sides of the chair and listened to the rain.

Lars felt his body pushed by strong invisible hands, felt himself toppling over like a woolen teddy bear onto Father's shoulder. He bit his lip and closed his eyes.

Mr. Nielson laughed, applying the brake.

"There now, the turn too sharp, eh Lars? I will be more careful."

The car began to move again, more slowly, jerking, rattling. Lars looked out the windshield at the fields and empty green meadows.

"Papa, is it far?"

"Hah, you are anxious! No, it is not far. Maybe five miles, right over the bridge."

"Will we have to stay long?"

Mr. Nielson frowned.

"I told Mama we would be back before dark. Don't you want to go, after what I told you, after what you said?"

Two children playing in a yard went by slowly.

"Don't you want to go, Lars?"

"Yes, Papa. I want to."

"Good. You don't know, you never saw anything like a carnival, never."

Lars closed his mouth and thought of colors. The children touched his mind and he thought of the blue dishes in his home. He opened his eyes, saw the pale road and thought of black nothing. Wind came through the open windows, tossing his brown hair and clawing gently at his face and he thought of the liquid green in a cat's eyes.