Ellis picked up the book and opened it. As he read the pages a strange look came slowly over his face. “Good Heavens. So they kept a record of what I gave them. They put it all together in a book. Every word of it. And some commentaries, too. It’s all here—Every single word. It did have an effect, then. They passed it on. Wrote all of it down.”
“Go back to your office. I’m through looking at you for today. I’m through looking at you for ever. Your severance check will come through regular channels.”
In a trance, his face flushed with a strange excitement, Ellis gripped the book and moved dazedly towards the door. “Say, Mr. Miller. Can I have this? Can I take it along?”
“Sure,” Miller said wearily. “Sure, you can take it. You can read it on your way home tonight. On the public monojet transport.”
“Henry has something to show you,” Mary Ellis whispered excitedly, gripping Mrs. Lawrence’s arm. “Make sure you say the right thing.”
“The right thing?” Mrs. Lawrence faltered nervously, a trifle uneasy. “What is it? Nothing alive, I hope.”
“No, no.” Mary pushed her towards the study door. “Just smile.” She raised her voice. “Henry, Dorothy Lawrence is here.”
Henry Ellis appeared at the door of his study. He bowed slightly, a dignified figure in silk dressing gown, pipe in his mouth, fountain pen in one hand. “Good evening, Dorothy,” he said in a low, well-modulated voice. “Care to step into my study a moment?”
“Study?” Mrs. Lawrence came hesitantly in. “What do you study? I mean, Mary says you’ve been doing something very interesting recently, now that you’re not with—I mean, now that you’re home more. She didn’t give me any idea what it was, though.”
“Mrs. Lawrence’s eyes roved curiously around the study. The study was full of reference volumes, charts, a huge mahogany desk, an atlas, globe, leather chairs, an unbelievably ancient electric typewriter.
“Good heavens!” she exclaimed. “How odd. All these old things.”
Ellis lifted something carefully from the book-case and held it out to her casually. “By the way—you might glance at this.”
“What is it? A book?” Mrs. Lawrence took the book and examined it eagerly. “My goodness. Heavy, isn’t it?” She read the back, her lips moving. “What does it mean? It looks old. What strange letters! I’ve never seen anything like it. Holy Bible.” She glanced up brightly. “What is this ?”
Ellis smiled faintly. “Well—”
A light dawned. Mrs. Lawrence gasped in revelation. “Good Heavens! You didn’t write this, did you?”
Ellis’s smile broadened into a depreciating blush. A dignified hue of modesty. “Just a little thing I threw together,” he murmured indifferently. “My first, as a matter of fact.” Thoughtfully, he fingered his fountain pen. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I really should be getting back to my work…”
THE BUILDER
“E. J. Elwood!” Lize said anxiously. “You aren’t listening to anything we’re saying. And you’re not eating a bit. What in the world is the matter with you? Sometimes I just can’t understand you.”
For a long time there was no response. Ernest Elwood continued to stare past them, staring out the window at the semi-darkness beyond, as if hearing something they did not hear. At last he sighed, drawing himself up in his chair, almost as if he were going to say something. But then his elbow knocked against his coffee cup and he turned instead to steady the cup, wiping spilled brown coffee from its side.
“Sorry,” he murmured. “What were you saying?”
“Eat dear,” his wife said. She glanced at the two boys as she spoke to see if they had stopped eating also. “You know, I go to a great deal of trouble to fix your food.” Bob, the older boy, was going right ahead, cutting his liver and bacon carefully into bits. But sure enough, little Toddy had put down his knife and fork as soon as E.J. had, and now he, too, was sitting silently, staring down at his plate.
“See?” Liz said. “You’re not setting a very good example for the boys. Eat up your food. It’s getting cold. You don’t want to eat cold liver, do you? There’s nothing worse than liver when it gets cold and the fat all over the bacon hardens. It’s harder to digest cold fat than anything else in the world. Especially lamb fat. They say a lot of people can’t eat lamb fat at all. Dear, please eat.”
Elwood nodded. He lifted his fork and spooned up some peas and potatoes, carrying them to his mouth. Little Toddy did the same, gravely and seriously, a small edition of his father.
“Say,” Bob said. “We had an atomic bomb drill at school today. We lay under the desks.”
“Is that right?” Liz said.
“But Mr. Pearson our science teacher says that if they drop a bomb on us the whole town’ll be demolished, so I can’t see what good getting under the desk will do. I think they ought to realize what advances science has made. There are bombs now that’ll destroy miles, leaving nothing standing.”
“You sure know a lot,” Toddy muttered.
“Oh, shut up.”
“Boys,” Liz said.
“It’s true,” Bob said earnestly. “A fellow I know is in the Marine Corp Reserve and he says they have new weapons that will destroy wheat crops and poison water supplies. It’s some kind of crystals.”
“Heavens,” Liz said.
“They didn’t have things like that in the last war. Atomic development came almost at the end without there really being an opportunity to make use of it on a full scale.” Bob turned to his father. “Dad, isn’t that true? I’ll bet when you were in the Army you didn’t have any of the fully atomic—”
Elwood threw down his fork. He pushed his chair back and stood up. Liz stared up in astonishment at him, her cup half raised. Bob’s mouth hung open, his sentence unfinished. Little Toddy said nothing.
“Dear, what’s the matter?” Liz said.
“I’ll see you later.”
They gazed after him in amazement as he walked away from the table, out of the dining-room. They heard him go into the kitchen and pull open the back door. A moment later the back door slammed behind him.
“He went out in the back yard,” Bob said. “Mom, was he always like this? Why does he act so funny? It isn’t some kind of war psychosis he got in the Philippines, is it? In the First World War they called it shell shock, but now they know it’s a form of war psychosis. Is it something like that?”
“Eat your food,” Liz said, red spots of anger burning in her cheeks. She shook her head. “Dam that man. I just can’t imagine—”
The boys ate their food.
It was dark out in the back yard. The sun had set and the air was cool and thin, filled with dancing specks of night insects. In the next yard Joe Hunt was working, raking leaves from under his cherry tree. He nodded to Elwood.
Elwood walked slowly down the path, across the yard towards the garage. He stopped, his hands in his pockets. By the garage something immense and white loomed up, a vast pale shape in the evening gloom. As he stood gazing at it a kind of warmth began to glow inside him. It was a strange warmth, something like pride, a little pleasure mixed in, and—and excitement. Looking at the boat always made him excited. Even when he was first starting on it he had felt the sudden race of his heart, the shaking of his hands, sweat on his face.
His boat. He grinned, walking closer. He reached up and thumped the solid side. What a fine boat it was, and coming along damn well. Almost done. A lot of work had gone into that, a lot of work and time. Afternoons off from work, Sundays, and even sometimes early in the morning before work.
That was best, early in the morning, with the bright sun “shining down and the air good-smelling and fresh, and everything wet and sparkling. He liked that time best of all, and there was no one else up to bother him and ask him questions. He thumped the solid side again. A lot of work and material, all right. Lumber and nails, sawing and hammering and bending. Of course. Toddy had helped him. He certainly couldn’t have done it alone; no doubt of that. If T
oddy hadn’t drawn the lines on the board and—
“Hey,” Joe Hunt said.
Elwood started, turning. Joe was leaning on the fence, looking at him. “Sorry,” Elwood said. “What did you say?”
“Your mind was a million miles away,” Hunt said. He took a puff on his cigar. “Nice night.”
“Yes.”
“That’s some boat you got there, Elwood.”
“Thanks,” Elwood murmured. He walked away from it, back towards the house. “Goodnight, Joe.”
“How long is it you’ve been working on that boat?” Hunt reflected. “Seems like about a year in all, doesn’t it? About twelve months. You sure put a lot of time and effort into it. Seems like every time I see you you’re carting lumber back here and sawing and hammering away.”
Elwood nodded, moving towards the back door.
“You even got your kids working. At least, the little tyke. Yes, it’s quite a boat,” Hunt paused. “You sure must be going to go quite a way with it, by the size of it. Now just exactly where was it you told me you’re going? I forget.”
There was silence.
“I can’t hear you, Elwood,” Hunt said. “Speak up. A boat that big, you must be—”
“Lay off.”
Hunt laughed easily. “What’s the matter, Elwood? I’m just having a little harmless fun, pulling your leg. But seriously, where are you going with that? You going to drag it down to the beach and float it? I know a guy has a little sail-boat he fits onto a trailer cart, hooks it up to his car. He drives down to the yacht harbour every week or so. But my God, you can’t get that big thing on to a trailer. You know, I heard about a guy built a boat in his cellar. Well, he got done and you know what he discovered? He discovered that the boat was so big when he tried to get it out the door—”
Liz Elwood came to the back door, snapping on the kitchen light and pushing the door open. She stepped out on to the grass, her arms folded.
“Good evening, Mrs. Elwood,” Hunt said, touching his hat. “Sure a nice night.”
“Good evening.” Liz turned to E.J. “For heaven’s sake, are you going to come in?” Her voice was low and hard.
“Sure.” Elwood reached out listlessly for the door. “I’m coming in. Goodnight, Joe.”
“Goodnight,” Hunt said. He watched the two of them go inside. The door closed, the light went off.” Hunt shook his head. “Funny guy,” he murmured. “Getting funnier all the time. Like he’s in a different world. Him and his boat!”
He went indoors.
“She was just eighteen,” Jack Fredericks said, “but she sure knew what it was all about.”
“Those southern girls are that way,” Charlie said. “It’s like fruit, nice soft, ripe, slightly damp fruit.”
“There’s a passage in Hemingway like that,” Ann Pike said. “I can’t remember what it’s from. He compares a—”
“But the way they talk,” Charlie said. “Who can stand the way those southern girls talk?”
“What’s the matter with the way they talk?” Jack demanded. “They talk different, but you get used to it.”
“Why can’t they talk right?”
“What do you mean?”
“They talk like—coloured people.”
“It’s because they all come from the same region,” Ann said.
“Are you saying this girl was coloured?” Jack said.
“No, of course not. Finish your pie.” Charlie looked at his wrist watch. “Almost one. We have to be getting on back to the office.”
“I’m not finished eating,” Jack said. “Hold on!”
“You know, there’s a lot of coloured people moving into my area,” Ann said. “There’s a real estate sign up on a house about a block from me. ‘All races welcomed.’ I almost fell over dead when I saw it.”
“What did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything. What can you do?”
“You know, if you work for the Government they can put a coloured man or a Chinese next to you,” Jack said, “and you can’t do anything about it.”
“Except quit.”
“It interferes with your right to work,” Charlie said. “How can you work like that? Answer me.”
“There’s too many pinks in the Government,” Jack said. “That’s how they got that, about hiring people for Government jobs without looking to see what race they belong to. During WPA days, when Harry Hopkins was in.”
“You know where Harry Hopkins was born?” Ann said. “He was born in Russia.”
“That was Sidney Hillman,” Jack said.
“It’s all the same,” Charlie said. “They all ought to be sent back there.”
Ann looked curiously at Ernest Elwood. He was sitting quietly, reading his newspaper, not saying anything. The cafeteria was alive with movement and noise. Everyone was eating and talking, coming and going, back and forth.
“E.J., are you all right?” Ann said.
“Yes.”
“He’s reading about the White Sox,” Charlie said. “He has that intent look. Say, you know, I took my kids to the game the other night, and—”
“Come on,” Jack said, standing up. “We have to get back.”
They all rose. Elwood folded his newspaper up silently, putting it into his pocket.
“Say, you’re not talking much,” Charlie said to him as they went up the aisle. Elwood glanced up.
“Sorry.”
“I’ve been meaning to ask you something. Do you want to come over Saturday night for a little game? You haven’t played with us for a hell of a long time.”
“Don’t ask him,” Jack said, paying for his meal at the cash register. “He always wants to play queer games like deuces wild, baseball, spit in the ocean—”
“Straight poker for me,” Charlie said. “Come on, Elwood. The more the better. Have a couple of beers, chew the fat, get away from the wife, eh?” He grinned.
“One of these days we’re going to have a good old stag party,” Jack said, pocketing his change. He winked at Elwood. “You know the kind I mean? We get some gals together, have a little show—” He made a motion with his hand.
Elwood moved off. “Maybe. I’ll think it over.” He paid for his lunch. Then he went outside, out on to the bright pavement. The others were still inside, waiting for Ann. She had gone into the powder room.
Suddenly Elwood turned and walked hurriedly down the pavement, away from the cafeteria. He turned the corner quickly and found himself on Cedar Street, in front of a television store. Shoppers and clerks out on their lunch hour pushed and crowded past him, laughing and talking, bits of their conversations rising and falling around him like waves of the sea. He stepped into the doorway of the television shop and stood, his hands in his pockets, like a man hiding from the rain.
What was the matter with him? Maybe he should go see a doctor. The sounds, the people, everything bothered him. Noise and motion everywhere. He wasn’t sleeping enough at night. Maybe it was something in his diet. And he was working so damn hard out in the yard. By the time he went to bed at night he was exhausted. Elwood rubbed his forehead. People and sounds, talking, streaming past him, endless shapes moving in the streets and stores.
In the window of the television shop a big television set blinked and winked a soundless programme, the images leaping merrily. Elwood watched passively. A woman in tights was doing acrobatics, first a series of splits, then cartwheels and spins. She walked on her hands for a moment, her legs waving above her, smiling at the audience. Then she disappeared and a brightly dressed man came on, leading a dog.
Elwood looked at his watch. Five minutes to one. He had five minutes to get back to the office. He went back on to the pavement and looked around the comer. Ann and Charlie and Jack were no place to be seen. They had gone on. Elwood walked slowly along, past the stores, his hands in his pockets. He stopped for a moment in front of the ten cent store, watching the milling women pushing and shoving around the imitation jewellery counters, touching things, picking the
m up, examining them. In the window of a drugstore he stared at an advertisement for athlete’s foot, some kind of a powder, being sprinkled between two cracked and blistered toes. He crossed the street.
On the other side he paused to look at a display of women’s clothing, skirts and blouses and wool sweaters. In a colour photograph a handsomely dressed girl was removing her blouse to show the world her elegant bra. Elwood passed on. The next window was suit-cases, luggage and trunks.
Luggage. He stopped, frowning. Something wandered through his mind, some loose vague thought, too nebulous to catch. He felt, suddenly, a deep inner urgency. He examined his watch. Ten past one. He was late. He hurried to the corner and stood waiting impatiently for the light to change. A handful of men and women pressed past him, moving out to the kerb to catch an oncoming bus. Elwood watched the bus. It halted, its doors opening. The people rushed on to it. Suddenly Elwood joined them, stepping up the steps of the bus. The doors closed behind him as he fished out change from his pocket.
A moment later he took his seat, next to an immense old woman with a child on her lap. Elwood sat quietly, his hands folded, staring ahead and waiting, as the bus moved off down the street, moving towards the residential district.
When he got home there was no one there. The house was dark and cool. He went to the bedroom and got his old clothes from the closet. He was just going out into the back yard when Liz appeared in the driveway, her arms loaded with groceries.
“E.J.!” she said. “What’s the matter? Why are you home?”
“I don’t know. I took some leave. It’s all right.”
Liz put her packages down on the fence. “For heaven’s sake,” she said irritably. “You frightened me.” She stared at him intently.
“You took leave?”
“Yes.”
“How much does that make, this year? How much leave have you taken in all?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? Well, is there any left?”
“Left for what?”
Liz stared at him. Then she picked up her packages and went inside the house, the back door banging after her. Elwood frowned. What was the matter? He went on into the garage and began to drag lumber and tools out on to the lawn, beside the boat.
A Handful of Darkness Page 9