The Short Happy Life of the Brown Oxford and Other Classic Stories (11 page)

He was walking slowly around the store, looking at the cans of vegetables, the frozen packages offish and meats shining and clean in the open refrigerator counters.

Ed Davies came toward him. “Can I help you?” he said. The man was a little oddly dressed, and with a beard! Ed couldn’t help smiling.

“Nothing,” the man said in a funny voice. “Just looking.”

“Sure,” Ed said. He walked back behind the counter. Mrs. Hacket was wheeling her cart up.

“Who’s he?” she whispered, her sharp face turned, her nose moving, as if it were sniffing. “I never seen him before.”

“I don’t know.”

“Looks funny to me. Why does he wear a beard? No one else wears a beard. Must be something the matter with him.”

“Maybe he likes to wear a beard. I had an uncle who—”

“Wait.” Mrs. Hacket stiffened. “Didn’t that—what was his name? The Red—that old one. Didn’t he have a beard? Marx. He had a beard.”

Ed laughed. “This ain’t Karl Marx. I saw a photograph of him once.”

Mrs. Hacket was staring at him. “You did?”

“Sure.” He flushed a little. “What’s the matter with that?”

“I’d sure like to know more about him,” Mrs. Hacket said. “I think we ought to know more, for our own good.”

“Hey, mister! Want a ride?”

Conger turned quickly, dropping his hand to his belt. He relaxed. Two young kids in a car, a girl and a boy. He smiled at them. “A ride? Sure.”

Conger got into the car and closed the door. Bill Willet pushed the gas and the car roared down the highway.

“I appreciate a ride,” Conger said carefully. “I was taking a walk between towns, but it was farther than I thought.”

“Where are you from?” Lora Hunt asked. She was pretty, small and dark, in her yellow sweater and blue skirt.

“From Cooper Creek.”

“Cooper Creek?” Bill said. He frowned. “That’s funny. I don’t remember seeing you before.”

“Why, do you come from there?”

“I was born there. I know everybody there.”

“I just moved in. From Oregon.”

“From Oregon? I didn’t know Oregon people had accents.”

“Do I have an accent?”

“You use words funny.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. Doesn’t he, Lora?”

“You slur them,” Lora said, smiling. “Talk some more. I’m interested in dialects.” She glanced at him, white-teethed. Conger felt his heart constrict.

“I have a speech impediment.”

“Oh.” Her eyes widened. “I’m sorry.”

They looked at him curiously as the car purred along. Conger for his part was struggling to find some way of asking them questions without seeming curious. “I guess people from out of town don’t come here much,” he said.

“Strangers.”

“No.” Bill shook his head. “Not very much.”

“I’ll bet I’m the first outsider for a long time.”

“I guess so.”

Conger hesitated. “A friend of mine—someone I know, might be coming through here. Where do you suppose I might—” He stopped. “Would there be anyone certain to see him? Someone I could ask, make sure I don’t miss him if he comes?”

They were puzzled. “Just keep your eyes open. Cooper Creek isn’t very big.”

“No. That’s right.”

They drove in silence. Conger studied the outline of the girl. Probably she was the boy’s mistress. Perhaps she was his trial wife. Or had they developed trial marriage back so far? He could not remember. But surely such an attractive girl would be someone’s mistress by this time; she would be sixteen or so, by her looks. He might ask her sometime, if they ever met again.

The next day Conger went walking along the one main street of Cooper Creek. He passed the general store, the two filling stations, and then the post office. At the corner was the soda fountain.

He stopped. Lora was sitting inside, talking to the clerk. She was laughing, rocking back and forth.

Conger pushed the door open. Warm air rushed around him. Lora was drinking hot chocolate, with whipped cream. She looked up in surprise as he slid into the seat beside her.

“I beg your pardon,” he said. “Am I intruding?”

“No.” She shook her head. Her eyes were large and dark. “Not at all.”

The clerk came over. “What do you want?”

Conger looked at the chocolate. “Same as she has.”

Lora was watching Conger, her arms folded, elbows on the counter. She smiled at him. “By the way. You don’t know my name. Lora Hunt.”

She was holding out her hand. He took it awkwardly, not knowing what to do with it. “Conger is my name,” he murmured.

“Conger? Is that your last or first name?”

“Last or first?” He hesitated. “Last. Omar Conger.”

“Omar?” She laughed. “That’s like the poet, Omar Khayyam.”

“I don’t know of him. I know very little of poets. We restored very few works of art. Usually only the Church has been interested enough—” He broke off. She was staring. He flushed. “Where I come from,” he finished.

“The Church? Which church do you mean?”

“The Church.” He was confused. The chocolate came and he began to sip it gratefully. Lora was still watching him.

“You’re an unusual person,” she said. “Bill didn’t like you, but he never likes anything different. He’s so—so prosaic. Don’t you think that when aperson gets older he should become—broadened in his outlook?”

Conger nodded.

“He says foreign people ought to stay where they belong, not come here. But you’re not so foreign. He means orientals; you know.”

Conger nodded.

The screen door opened behind them. Bill came into the room. He stared at them. “Well,” he said.

Conger turned. “Hello.”

“Well.” Bill sat down. “Hello, Lora.” He was looking at Conger. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

Conger tensed. He could feel the hostility of the boy. “Something wrong with that?”

“No. Nothing wrong with it.”

There was silence. Suddenly Bill turned to Lora. “Come on. Let’s go.”

“Go?” She was astonished. “Why?”

“Just go!” He grabbed her hand. “Come on! The car’s outside.”

“Why, Bill Willet,” Lora said. “You’re jealous!”

“Who is this guy?” Bill said. “Do you know anything about him? Look at him, his beard—”

She flared. “So what? Just because he doesn’t drive a Packard and go to Cooper High!”

Conger sized the boy up. He was big—big and strong. Probably he was part of some civil control organization.

“Sorry,” Conger said. “I’ll go.”

“What’s your business in town?” Bill asked. “What are you doing here? Why are you hanging around Lora?”

Conger looked at the girl. He shrugged. “No reason. I’ll see you later.”

He turned away. And froze. Bill had moved. Conger’s fingers went to his belt.
Half pressure,
he whispered to himself.
No more. Half pressure.

He squeezed. The room leaped around him. He himself was protected by the lining of his clothing, the plastic sheathing inside.

“My God—” Lora put her hands up. Conger cursed. He hadn’t meant any of it for her. But it would wear off. There was only a half-amp to it. It would tingle.

Tingle, and paralyze.

He walked out the door without looking back. He was almost to the corner when Bill came slowly out, holding onto the wall like a drunken man. Conger went on.

As Conger walked, restless, in the night, a form loomed in front of him. He stopped, holding his breath.

“Who is it?” a man’s voice came. Conger waited, tense.

“Who is it?” the man said again. He clicked something in his hand. A light flashed. Conger moved.

“It’s me,” he said.

“Who is ‘me’?”

“Conger is my name. I’m staying at the Appleton’s place. Who are you?”

The man came slowly up to him. He was wearing a leather jacket. There was a gun at his waist.

“I’m Sheriff Duff. I think you’re the person I want to talk to. You were in Bloom’s today, about three o’clock?”

“Bloom’s?”

“The fountain. Where the kids hang out.” Duff came up beside him, shining his light into Conger’s face. Conger blinked.

“Turn that thing away,” he said.

A pause. “All right.” The light flickered to the ground. “You were there. Some trouble broke out between you and the Willet boy. Is that right? You had a beef over his girl—”

“We had a discussion,” Conger said carefully.

“Then what happened?”

“Why?”

“I’m just curious. They say you did something.”

“Did something? Did what?”

“I don’t know. That’s what I’m wondering. They saw a flash, and something seemed to happen. They all blacked out. Couldn’t move.”

“How are they now?”

“All right.”

There was silence.

“Well?” Duff said. “What was it? A bomb?”

“A bomb?” Conger laughed. “No. My cigarette lighter caught fire. There was a leak, and the fluid ignited.”

“Why did they all pass out?”

“Fumes.”

Silence. Conger shifted, waiting. His fingers moved slowly toward his belt. The Sheriff glanced down. He grunted.

“If you say so,” he said. “Anyhow, there wasn’t any real harm done.” He stepped back from Conger. “And that Willet is a trouble-maker.”

“Good night, then,” Conger said. He started past the Sheriff.

“One more thing, Mr. Conger. Before you go. You don’t mind if I look at your identification, do you?”

“No. Not at all.” Conger reached into his pocket. He held his wallet out.

The Sheriff took it and shined his flashlight on it. Conger watched, breathing shallowly. They had worked hard on the wallet, studying historic documents, relics of the times, all the papers they felt would be relevant.

Duff handed it back. “Okay. Sorry to bother you.” The light winked off.

When Conger reached the house he found the Appletons sitting around the television set. They did not look up as he came in. He lingered at the door.

“Can I ask you something?” he said. Mrs. Appleton turned slowly. “Can I ask you—what’s the date?”

“The date?” She studied him. “The first of December.”

“December first! Why, it was just November!”

They were all looking at him. Suddenly he remembered. In the twentieth century they still used the old twelve month system. November fed directly into December; there was no Quartember between them.

He gasped. Then it was tomorrow! The second of December! Tomorrow!

“Thanks,” he said. “Thanks.”

He went up the stairs. What a fool he was, forgetting. The Founder had been taken into captivity on the second of December, according to the newspaper records. Tomorrow, only twelve hours hence, the Founder would appear to speak to the people and then be dragged away.

The day was warm and bright. Conger’s shoes crunched the melting crust of snow. On he went, through the trees heavy with white. He climbed a hill and strode down the other side, sliding as he went.

He stopped to look around. Everything was silent. There was no one in sight. He brought out a thin rod from his waist and turned the handle of it. For a moment nothing happened. Then there was a shimmering in the air.

The crystal cage appeared and settled slowly down. Conger sighed. It was good to see it again. After all, it was his only way back.

He walked up on the ridge. He looked around with some satisfaction, his hands on his hips. Hudson’s field was spread out, all the way to the beginning of town. It was bare and flat, covered with a thin layer of snow.

Here, the Founder would come. Here, he would speak to them. And here the authorities would take him.

Only he would be dead before they came. He would be dead before he even spoke.

Conger returned to the crystal globe. He pushed through the door and stepped inside. He took the Slem-gun from the shelf and screwed the bolt into place. It was ready to go, ready to fire. For a moment he considered. Should he have it with him?

No. It might be hours before the Founder came, and suppose someone approached him in the meantime? When he saw the Founder coming toward the field, then he could go and get the gun.

Conger looked toward the shelf. There was the neat package. He took it down and unwrapped it.

He held the skull in his hands, turning it over. In spite of himself, a cold feeling rushed through him. This was the man’s skull, the skull of the Founder, who was still alive, who would come here, this day, who would stand on the field not fifty yards away.

What if
he
could see this, his own skull, yellow and corroded? Two centuries old. Would he still speak? Would he speak, if he could see it, the grinning, aged skull? What would there be for him to say, to tell the people? What message could he bring?

What action would not be futile, when a man could look upon his own aged, yellowed skull? Better they should enjoy their temporary lives, while they still had them to enjoy.

A man who could hold his own skull in his hands would believe in few causes, few movements. Rather, he would preach the opposite—

A sound. Conger dropped the skull back on the shelf and took up the gun. Outside something was moving. He went quickly to the door, his heart beating. Was it
he?
Was it the Founder, wandering by himself in the cold, looking for a place to speak? Was he meditating over his words, choosing his sentences?

What if he could see what Conger had held!

He pushed the door open, the gun raised. Lora!

He stared at her. She was dressed in a wool jacket and boots, her hands in her pockets. A cloud of steam came from her mouth and nostrils. Her breast was rising and falling.

Silently, they looked at each other. At last Conger lowered the gun. “What is it?” he said. “What are you doing here?” She pointed. She did not seem able to speak. He frowned; what was wrong with her?