This was the first of Crenshaw’s long series of fortnightly visits. Always he brought with him something sombre and menacing to say, something dark and terrible to read – save that once when the Fiend had had nothing to read for a long time he brought him four inspiringly titled books – that proved to have nothing but blank paper inside.
Another time, pretending to concede a point, he promised to bring newspapers – he brought ten copies of the yellowed journal that had reported the crime and the arrest. Sometimes he obtained medical books that showed in colour the red and blue and green ravages of leprosy and skin disease, the mounds of shattered cells, the verminous tissue and brown corrupted blood.
And there was no sewer of the publishing world from which he did not obtain records of all that was gross and vile in man.
Crenshaw could not keep this up indefinitely both because of the expense and because of the exhaustibility of such books.
When five years had passed he leaned towards another form of torture. He built up false hopes in the Fiend with protests of his own change of heart and manoeuvres for a pardon, and then dashed the hopes to pieces.
Or else he pretended to have a pistol with him, or an inflammatory substance that would make the cell a raging inferno and consume the Fiend in two minutes – once he threw a dummy bottle into the cell and listened in delight to the screams as the Fiend ran back and forth waiting for the explosion.
At other times he would pretend grimly that the legislature had passed a new law which provided that the Fiend would be executed in a few hours.
A decade passed. Crenshaw was grey at forty – he was white at fifty, when the alternating routine of his fortnightly visits to the graves of his loved ones and to the penitentiary had become the only part of his life – the long days at Radamacher’s were only a weary dream.
Sometimes he went and sat outside the Fiend’s cell, with no word said during the half-hour he was allowed to be there. The Fiend too had grown white in twenty years. He was very respectable looking with his horn-rimmed glasses and his white hair. He seemed to have a great respect for Crenshaw, and even when the latter, in a renewal of diminishing vitality, promised him one day that on his very next visit he was going to bring a revolver and end the matter, he nodded gravely as if in agreement, said ‘I suppose so; yes, I suppose you’re perfectly right,’ and did not mention the matter to the guards.
On the occasion of the next visit he was waiting with his hands on the bars of the cell, looking at Crenshaw both hopefully and desperately. At certain tensions and strains death takes on, indeed, the quality of a great adventure, as any soldier can testify.
Years passed. Crenshaw was promoted to floor manager at Radamacher’s – there were new generations now that did not know of his tragedy, and regarded him as an austere nonentity. He came into a little legacy, and bought new stones for the graves of his wife and son. He knew he would soon be retired, and while a third decade lapsed through the white winters, the short, sweet, smoky summers, it became more and more plain to him that the time had come to put an end to the Fiend, to avoid any mischance by which the other would survive him.
The moment he fixed upon came at the exact end of thirty years. Crenshaw had long owned the pistol with which it would be accomplished; he had fingered the shells lovingly, and calculated the lodgment of each in the Fiend’s body, so that death would be sure, but lingering – he studied the tales of abdominal wounds in the war news, and delighted in the agony that made victims pray to be killed.
After that, what happened to him did not matter.
When the day came he had no trouble in smuggling the pistol into the penitentiary. But, to his surprise, he found the Fiend scrunched up upon his cot, instead of waiting for him avidly by the bars.
‘I’m sick,’ the Fiend said. ‘My stomach’s been burning me up all morning. They gave me a physic, but now it’s worse, and nobody comes.’
Crenshaw fancied momentarily that this was a premonition in the man’s bowels of a bullet that would shortly ride ragged through that spot.
‘Come up to the bars,’ he said, mildly.
‘I can’t move.’
‘Yes, you can.’
‘I’m doubled up. All doubled up.’
‘Come doubled up, then.’
With an effort the Fiend moved himself, only to fall on his side on the cement floor. He groaned, and then lay quiet for a minute, after which, still bent in two, he began to drag himself a foot at a time toward the bars.
Suddenly Crenshaw set off at a run toward the end of the corridor.
‘I want a prison doctor,’ he demanded of the guard. ‘That man’s sick – sick, I tell you.’
‘The doctor has –’
‘Get him – get him now!’
The guard hesitated, but Crenshaw had become a tolerated, even privileged, person around the prison, and in a moment the guard took down his ’phone and called the infirmary.
All that afternoon Crenshaw waited in the bare area inside the gates, walking up and down with his hands behind his back. From time to time he went to the front entrance and demanded of the guard:
‘Any news?’
‘Nothing yet. They’ll call me when there’s anything.’
Late in the afternoon the Warden appeared at the door, looked about, and spotted Crenshaw. The latter, all alert, hastened over.
‘He’s dead,’ the Warden said. ‘His appendix burst. They did everything they could.’
‘Dead,’ Crenshaw repeated.
‘I’m sorry to bring you this news. I know how –’
‘It’s all right,’ said Crenshaw, and, licking his lips, ‘So he’s dead.’
The Warden lit a cigarette.
‘While you’re here, Mr Engels, I wonder if you can let me have that pass that was issued to you? – I can turn it in to the office. That is – I suppose you won’t need it any more.’
Crenshaw took the blue card from his wallet, and handed it over. The Warden shook hands with him.
‘One thing more,’ Crenshaw demanded as the Warden turned away, ‘which is the – the window of the infirmary?’
‘It’s on the interior court, you can’t see it from here.’
‘Oh.’
When the Warden had gone Crenshaw still stood there a long time, the tears running out down his face. He could not collect his thoughts, and he began by trying to remember what day it was: Saturday – that was it, the day every other week on which he came to see the Fiend.
He would not see the Fiend two weeks from now.
In a misery of solitude and despair he muttered aloud: ‘So he is dead. He has left me.’ And then, with a long sigh of mingled grief and fear. ‘So now at last I am alone.’
He was still saying that to himself as he passed through the outer gate. He felt the necessity of turning to the guard there and repeating it: ‘Now, you see,’ he muttered. ‘I really am alone.’
His coat caught in the great swing of the outer door, and as the guard opened up to release it he heard a reiteration of the words:
‘Now I’m alone – now I’m really alone.’
Shaggy’s Morning
I woke up after a lousy dream, and as soon as the old beezer came alive I went around the yard trying to pick up something interesting, but the wind was too strong.
There was an old biscuit in my dish and if there’s anything gloomier than one dead biscuit on a windy morning I don’t know about it.
The Brain came downstairs early like she usually does ever since she began staying away all day long. I gave her a rush, and I meant it, too. I’m not one of these diggities that think their boss is a god, even if he’s an old nigger that smells like everybody that gave him his clothes – but really anybody would have to hand it to the Brain.
Since I grew up and got the idea that they don’t go in much for any perfumes except their own, I never had any trouble with her – except the time I brought her that bone in the middle of the night and she hit me in the eye with it.
I was hoping it was about the right day to go out in the country and swim, but nothing doing – she got into her moving room at the usual time and shoved off, and I had to amuse myself. It wasn’t the first time I wished I had something regular to do.
My friend across the street was waiting for his chow, which he gets in the morning, so I had a workout with the little squirt next door. He came tearing over, cursing and threatening, because he knew I never hurt him.
‘You big, clumsy tub of hair, I could run rings around you, and I’m out to prove it!’
‘Yeah?’ I said, kind of amused, because he talks as if he meant it, and we went through a routine with a lot of false starts, charges, leg and throat holds, rollaways, and escapes. It was all right, and after, while we were panting plenty, but I don’t get much of a workout with him, because he uses up so much time dodging and doing circles. I like a dog to go in and take it. Even a little fellow like him. Once he let a tooth slip and nipped me, and I gave him hell.
‘Don’t take advantage, or I’ll tear your coat off.’
‘Aw, don’t get sore.’
‘Then don’t let that tooth slip again.’
While we were resting he said: ‘What are you doing this morning?’
‘What’s on your mind? You won’t get me out after some cat again. Some dogs never grow up.’
‘It’s no cat.’
‘Then what is it? Meat – or girls?’
‘I’ll take you there and you can see for yourself.’
‘You’re generous all of a sudden. How big’s the dog that’s there now?’
While we waited for my friend we did some barking – or rather the squirt did most of it. These little tykes can yelp all day without getting hoarse. He made some circles around a bunch of kids heading for school, and I had a laugh when he got a kick in the ribs and gave out a real yelp. I only barked a little in the base to stretch my throat – I’m not one of the kind always shooting off their mouth.
After my friend came out we went with the squirt to see what he’d found. Just like I thought, it was nothing – a garbage can with a lid you could nose off. I got a whiff of some perfume, too, that bucked me up for a minute, but it was yesterday’s, so my friend and I roughed up the squirt for wasting our time and went off on our own.
We followed a tall lady for a while – no particular reason except she had a parcel with meat in it – we knew we wouldn’t get any, but you never can tell. Sometimes I just feel like shutting my nose and just following somebody pretending they’re yours, or that they’re taking you somewhere. After a couple of streets I picked up a new perfume.
‘There’s some romance,’ I said.
‘Say you got a nose.’ He tried for it, but didn’t get anything.
‘I must be getting old. I can always remember shapes, but I get mixed up on perfume.’
‘Shucks, it’s just the wind,’ I said, to make him feel all right, but he has got a weak nose. Now me, I got a fine nose, but I’m weak on shapes. In a minute, though, he got it, and we left the lady and started back down the street at a trot.
Say we must have followed a mile, both of us getting more and more disgusted.
‘What’s the use?’ my friend said. ‘Either I’m crazy or we’re not following one scent, but about ten.’
‘I get about twenty.’
‘What say we quit?’
‘Well, we’re pretty near now.’
We got up on a hill presently and looked down – and, say, I haven’t seen so many curs since the dog show.
‘Sold,’ I says, and we started home.
The Brain wasn’t there yet, but the Beard was. He got out that damn pole and tried to kid me again, holding it out and jabbering – a long time ago I figured out that his object is to see if I’m fool enough to jump over it. But I don’t bite, just walk round it. Then he tried the trick they all do – held my paws and tried to balance me up on the end of my spine. I never could figure out the point of that one.
He started the music-box, that tune that makes my ear hum and starts me howling – so I lammed it out and down the street. A dog passed me carrying a newspaper looking all pleased with himself – but the one time I tried that racket I forgot what it was I was carrying and started to bury it, and when the Beard saw me. Was he sore!
Pretty soon I saw my friend coming down the street. He was a fine big dog. He stopped and visited for a minute, with a child he knew, and then he saw me, and came running in my direction. What happened next I couldn’t see. It was noon, and there were lots of moving rooms at the cross street – the first thing I knew was that one of them had stopped and then another, and that several people had gotten out. I hurried over with some men.
It was my friend, lying on his side and bleeding out of his mouth; his eyes were open, but his breathing was wrong. Everybody was excited, and they pulled him up on the lawn: by and by his little boy and girl ran out of their house and came over and began to cry. I and another dog that knew him well went up to him, and I wanted to lick him, but when I came really close he snarled, ‘Scram!’ and got half up on his haunches. He thought I was going to eat him just because he was down.
The little boy said, ‘Get away, you!’ and it made me feel bad because I’ve never eaten a dog in my life, and would not unless I was very hungry. But of course, I went away so as not to worry him, and waited until they carried him away on a blanket. After that we sniffed at the blood in the street and one dog licked it.
In the front yard I howled. I don’t know why – then I went to look for the Brain. When I didn’t find her I began to figure that maybe something had happened to her, too, and she wouldn’t be back any more. I went up on the porch and waited, but she didn’t come, so I scratched on the screen and went in and howled a little at the Beard, who gave me a head scratch.
Presently I went to the door, and there was the Brain, getting out of her moving room – I made a rush for her anyhow, and put my nose in her hand and almost tripped her going upstairs. It was good to know she was home. She gave me dinner – the ground beef again and biscuit and milk and a good bone. I picked out the meat first; then I drank the milk and licked the biscuits, but didn’t eat them; then I polished my teeth on the bone and buried it shallow – I must have a hundred bones around here, and I don’t know why I save them. I never find them again unless accidentally, but I just can’t stand leaving them around.
Afterwards I started to go over and see my friend, but there was nobody around except the little girl sitting in the swing and crying.
Copyright
Selection and Introduction © Peter Haining 1991
First published in Great Britain 1991
This version 2014
ISBN 978 0 7198 1686 4 (epub)
ISBN 978 0 7198 1687 1 (mobi)
ISBN 978 0 7198 1688 8 (pdf)
ISBN 978 0 7090 4612 7 (print)
Robert Hale Limited
Clerkenwell House
Clerkenwell Green
London EC1R 0HT
www.halebooks.com
The Fantasy and Mystery Stories of F Scott Fitzgerald Page 26