by Robert Bloch
The river, though, is a lot stronger than it looks.
And deeper.
Like the forests outside Minneapolis.
The mountains outside Taos.
I met a woman, one of them that doesn’t have an age even though she doesn’t do nothing very special, in Georgia. She wanted me, after a couple of hours dancing around and sizing me up, to see the swamps.
I hadn’t thought of that.
Planning never figured.
A guy in some newspaper, I don’t remember which one there’s been so damn many, he says I’m obviously filled with hatred for my mother. What the hell? He don’t know much, and read all that in books, I bet. Says women are attracted to me because I’m secretly afraid of them, they know this, they think they can dominate me or some shit like that. God. I mean, did Lillie sound like she wanted to dominate me? Hell, all I did there was give her just what she wanted when I met her.
Dumb jerk writer, looking to make a buck, I don’t blame him, but it’s too bad he’s where I already was too short a time ago. I’d like to take him out to lunch sometime, show him where his book ends and his life begins.
Tell him about the faces.
You read this stuff, you know, you think it’s so until some guy, like this writer, they tell you it’s all made up. You can’t tell nothing from anybody’s eyes, for example, lest they want you to, secretly or not. Right. And most people, whether they know it or not, can keep a secret with their eyes. Right. And only in the movies do people look deep into someone’s eyes and come up with a whole damn life history, stuff like that. Right.
Not true.
Not really.
Eyes tell you where things are, where people want to go, where people wish they were, things like that. You work at it long enough, you can say you’re the King of England, for God’s sake, and people who think they can read your eyes will believe it if the eyes tell them it’s true.
Right.
All the time, though, you’re the one checking them out, and you don’t gotta stare either. A look is all it takes. A check of the eyes. And the corners of the mouth. The cheeks. The forehead. The chin. A look.
It takes it all in, all the face, and I looked at Suzanne and saw that she didn’t much care for what she saw. A lost case, I thought; nothing here to worry about. Standing in the check-out line, some two-bit convenience store in Boston, I ask her anyway if she wants to put her stuff on the counter, I got only a pack of cigarettes, she’s got a whole load of stuff. She nodded, ignored the polite smile, dumped her stuff and fussed with her purse, she’s already got the total in her head.
I pay and leave.
Lots of time, I’m never in any hurry.
Don’t have any plans.
She comes out, sees me walking up the street, calls after me. I turned around, couldn’t believe my ears, and she wants to know would I help her, the damn bag’s breaking already.
“Do you have a car?”
She’s tall, a little heavy but certainly not fat, reddish kind of hair. She could walk to New Hampshire, I figure, and break only a little sweat.
“Sorry.” I pointed over my shoulder. “My hotel’s just a couple of blocks away. I’m only in town for a few days.” A shrug. “Computer stuff over in Cambridge.”
“Oh.” She shrugs, and points the other way. “My place is a couple blocks down there.”
It’s dark. Cold. Breath in the air like we was panting horses, snow piled on the curbs, the streetlights sharp. Most of the buildings have no lights in their windows, trash scattered around, papers blowing.
I don’t like it, what she said. Not that I don’t mind getting picked up now and then, makes for a full life and is better than watching TV, but this ain’t sitting right with me, you know what I mean? All parts of her face are telling me different stuff, and its confuses the hell out of me.
“You need some help?”
I couldn’t believe I said that. I mean, I was so surprised I stuttered until she started to laugh. Not a particularly nice laugh, but damn, it made me feel weird.
“I’m not going to bite,” she said. “You live up that way, I live down that way, and it’s late. You can see what the neighborhood’s like. I’d appreciate the company to the stoop.”
Confusion. I could learn something here, I figured suddenly, even if nothing came of it, so I played the good guy, took one of the bags and walked with her. Damn, it was cold! But I didn’t say nothing because I kept trying to catch her out, make her face talk to me whenever we passed under a streetlight or a car came along and nailed her with the headlamps.
All it did was grin.
All the way to her apartment house in a section of town I didn’t blame her that she wanted company.
She took the bag and said, “So look, you gonna be free anytime?”
Take it where you can get it, I told myself.
“Yeah. Tomorrow afternoon, in fact.”
“You know Boston?”
Her breath, like her face, was smoke.
“Nope. First time.” No lie. I’m never in one place more than once, except New Orleans where I fit in better than most, though Lillie was the only time I did something about it. Some guys, more of them writer types, they got me spending years in the same state, for God’s sake. Like I’m an idiot or something. “Last time I was in Massachusetts, about ten years ago, I think, I never got the chance to come here.” No lie, either.
“Well, tell you what,” she said, starting up the steps, talking at me without looking around, “if you want, you can meet me at the store around one, I’ll show you some of the sights.”
“Well. . .hey, thanks.”
“No problem.” At the door she looked over her shoulder. “Could be fun.”
I guess.
I never thought of it as fun.
It was just something to do, traveling and meeting people and traveling on. Interesting, always; once in a while a little exciting; every so often dull, but not so often that I’m tempted to settle down. But fun? Strange. I really never thought of it that way.
So what the hell, no plans, right?, and the next day we do the subway thing, with cars like trolleys, which I thought was kind of fascinating and a hell of a lot better than New York’s mole, checked out a couple of places what had plaques on them and all, and walked along the Charles River, which was damn cold what with all the wind and all, and we didn’t say much. Talked a lot. Didn’t say much. It was. . .unsettling, I guess. Couldn’t get that handle, couldn’t read that face, and couldn’t find a place where I could get things done and be done with it.
By the time we got back to my hotel, were in the lobby bar having a drink, I realized for the first time that day what the hell was wrong with me, and I laughed. Very loud. People stared, I didn’t care, because for just one second there I was scared.
Never been that before.
Really scared.
For my life.
But I was. Then. Glass of beer touching my lips, looking at her trying to figure out what the hell had gone wrong, why I was still with her.
In that second, that one there with the glass and the look, I got scared.
Suzanne saw it.
And I read her face.
And I laughed.
“You’re drunk,” she said in mild disgust.
“Not me,” I answered, laughed again, though this time a little quieter because all them people they were looking at me too long, some out-of-town idiot they wish would take the next flight back to the sticks. “I’m sorry, Suzanne, but I just had what you might call a revelation.”
An eyebrow lifted.
The scare was gone.
She took a bill out of her purse, made like she was gonna pay for the drinks, and I couldn’t help it—I reached over the table and took her wrist.
“You been in Boston long?” I said.
She blinked.
“You haven’t been,” I told her. Frowned a little. “Not all that long.” I tapped her arm to tell her not to lie, and let her
go.
And stared at her until she was forced to look at me. I mean, really look at me. Not sneaking looks, not phony looks—a real look.
Then she laughed.
I nodded.
She stood up and shook her head. “Damn,” she said, “I thought I was the only one, you know?”
“Me too,” I said. I was gonna lie, but she would’ve known it. “Nice to meet you.”
“You leaving town?”
“In the morning, I guess.”
“Have any fun?” She giggled.
“Nope. Thought I was, though.” I laughed.
She laughed back, and damn if she didn’t lean over then and kiss me on the cheek. First damn real kiss I’ve had in years. She looked at me again, kissed me again, and waved like we was old friends as she headed for the door.
I didn’t go after her.
But I felt so good I stayed in my chair most of the night, sipping, watching, making a couple of brief contacts that I didn’t feel like picking up on even though they were pleasant enough. Didn’t matter, though. There would be more. There are always more. Always would be until I got too old.
But this was special.
This was the most special night of my life.
Hell, I had just met my first kin, the first person like me I’d ever met.
Should’ve known, though, there was more.
Stands to reason.
All them prisons, all them trials, all them stories in the newspapers, all the movies with all that blood and spilling brains and arms cut off, heads cut off, eyes poked out, trials and manhunts and headlines and cops—stands to reason there had to be some like me, right?
Had to be.
We’re the ones you see in your dreams.
We’re the ones who don’t have any faces.
Why?
Hell, that’s easy too.
We’re the ones that never get caught.
Call Home
Dennis Etchison
When he walked in, the red light on the answering machine was blinking.
He dropped the mail on the coffee table and sat down. He ran a hand through his hair and leaned into the sofa, his ears still ringing from the rush-hour traffic.
He was in no hurry to replay his messages. It was easy to guess what they wanted: time, money, answers. He had none to spare. He reached out and stirred the pile of letters.
More of the same.
He got up, went to the bedroom and changed his clothes. Then he came back and sank deeper into the cushions. He propped his feet up and closed his eyes.
When the phone rang again, he let the machine take over.
“I’m not home right now,” he heard his own recorded voice say, “but if you care to leave a message, please begin speaking when you hear the tone. Thank you for calling. . .”
Beep.
A pause, and the incoming tape started rolling.
He waited to monitor the call.
Static. A rush of white noise. Like traffic.
No one there. Or someone who did not like talking to a machine.
A few more seconds and it would hang up automatically.
“Daddy? Is t-that you?”
He opened his eyes.
“Please, c-can you come get met I don’t know how to get home. . .and I’m scared!”
What?
“It’s getting cold. . .and dark. . .”
He sat forward.
“There’s a man here. . .and he’s bothering me! I think he’s crazy! And it’s going to rain and. . .and. . .Daddy, tell me what to do!”
He got to his feet.
“I don’t like this place! There’s a rooster. . .it’s burning. . .and a gas station. . .and a sign. It says, um, it starts with a p. P-I-C-O. . .”
He crossed the living room.
“Daddy, please come quick. . .!”
He snatched up the receiver.
“Hello?” he said.
The child’s voice began to sing brokenly.
“Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home. . .your house is on fire. . .and your children will burn. . .”
Her voice trailed off as she started to cry.
“Hello? Hello?”
Click.
He stood there holding the phone, wondering what to do.
He was sure of only one thing.
He had no daughter.
So what if it was a wrong number? She was in trouble. A child, a little girl. What if something happened to her?
He couldn’t let it go.
She had spelled out a word. P-I-C-O. The sign. A rooster, a gas station. . .yes, it sounded familiar.
The chicken restaurant. Next to the 76 station. On Pico Boulevard.
It wasn’t far.
The traffic was still gridlocked. He crossed Wilshire in low gear, then Santa Monica, and turned west. A stream of cars growled past him, ragged music and demanding voices leaking from beneath shimmering hoods. He made a left on Westwood and kept to the right as he passed Olympic, slowing to a crawl as he came to the next corner.
She was huddled in the doorway of El Polio Muerto, a school book bag at her feet. Her legs were dirty and her hair was in her eyes. A few yards away, at the gas station, was the phone booth. She did not look up as he braked by a loading zone.
He leaned over and rolled down the window.
“Hey!”
The people at the bus stop glanced his way blankly, then stared past him down the street.
She lowered her head, resting her forehead on her arms.
He cleared his throat and shouted above the din. “Hey, little girl!”
She raised her head.
A woman eyed him suspiciously.
“Hi!” he called. “Hello, there! Do you need any help?”
The woman glared at him.
He ignored her and spoke to the girl.
“Are you the one who—?” Suddenly he felt foolish. “Did you call me?”
The little girl’s face brightened.
“Daddy?”
The crowd moved closer. Then there was a rumbling and a pumping of brakes. He saw in his rearview mirror that an RTD bus had pulled up behind him.
“Come on,” he said. “And your books—”
He opened the door for her as the bus sounded its horn.
“Daddy, it is you!”
The crowd surged past. The woman took notice of his license plate. The bus tapped his bumper.
“Get in.”
He slipped into gear and got away from the curb. The pressure of traffic carried him across the intersection.
“Where do you want to go?” he asked. He passed another corner before it was possible to turn. “What’s the address?”
“I don’t know,” said the little girl.
“You don’t remember?”
She did not answer.
“Well, you’ll have to tell me. Which way?”
“Want to go home,” she said. She was now sitting straight in her seat, watching the lights with wide eyes.
“Are you all right?”
“I guess so.”
At least it hasn’t started to rain, he thought. “Did anyone hurt you?”
“I’m kind of hungry,” she said.
He idled at a red light and got a good look at her. Seven, maybe eight years old and skinny as a rail. The bones in her wrists showed like white knuckles through the thin skin.
“When was the last time you had anything to eat?”
“I don’t know.”
She crossed her legs, angling a bruised ankle on a knobby knee, and he saw that her legs were streaked and smudged all the way up. My God, he thought, how long since she’s had a bath? Has she been living on the streets?
“Well then,” he said, “the first thing we’ll do is get you some food.” And then he would figure out what to do wit! her. “Okay?”
He took her to a deli. She gulped down a hot dog, leaving the bun on the plate, and watched him as he chewed his sandwich. He started to order her another, and realize
d something. He touched his hip pocket. Empty. He had forgotten his wallet when he changed his clothes.
“Take half of mine,” he told her, trying to think.
“I don’t like that kind.”
She continued to watch him.
Finally he said, “Do you want another hot dog?”
“Yes, please!”
He ordered one more and saw to it that she drank her milk.
Afterward, while the waitress was in another part of the restaurant, he said abruptly, “Let’s go.”
They drove away as the waitress came out onto the sidewalk.
“That was good,” said the little girl.
“Glad you liked it. Now—”
“The way you did that. You didn’t even leave a tip. You did it for me, didn’t you?”
“Yes.” What was I supposed to do? he thought. I’ll come back tomorrow and take care of it. “Now where are we going?”
“Home,” she said. “Oh, Daddy, you’re so silly! Where did you think?”
“You’ve got to tell me,” he said in the driveway.
“Tell you what?”
She got out and skipped to the front door, dragging her book bag. She waited for him on the porch.
He shook his head.
“Well,” he said once they were inside, “are you going to tell me?”
“Um, where’s the bathroom?”
“In there.” He went to the phone. “But first—”
He heard water running.
He stood outside the bathroom door and listened. The shower was hissing, and presently she began to sing a song.
In the living room, the phone rang.
“I’m not home right now—”
“Jack, would you pick it up, please? I know you’re there. . .”
“Hello, Chrissie. Sorry. I just got in.”
“So late? Poor baby. . .”
“Listen, Chrissie, can I call you back? There’s something I have to—”
“Are Ruth and Will there yet?”
“What?”
“Don’t tell me you forgot! Well, I guess I can pick up something on the way over. You know, maybe we can get rid of them early. Would you like that?”
“Yeah, sure. But—”
“See you in a few minutes, love. And Jack? I’ve missed you. . .!”
Click.