The Cleft, and Other Odd Tales

by Gahan Wilson

  "Not much, but you're a start," said Marvello, observing the little creature with interest as it struggled toward the entrance. "If I'd have known the likes of you was out there I'd have lured you in during the preamble with Wally Mysto and his Edible Animal Puppets. Land's sake, I do declare this little nipper must have drowned in its baptismal font. Yes, I'd have sworn the likes of you would have shown up for one of the earlier shows, sweetness, yes I would, but there's no accounting for taste."

  He made no move to close the flap as the baby cleared the entrance and entered the tent. He'd only done it with his earlier visitors because he liked the effect, the truth be told. A vague electrical sputtering, a curl of smoke, and perhaps the faintest hint of a tiny, cut-off wail were ignored completely by Marvello because a surrounding murmur of activity had taken his full attention. He straightened and stared into the surrounding darkness.

  There were so many of them, but then there were always so many of them. The first few rows now emerging into the ruddy light were distinct; you could read their separate forms, see their individual bodies, observe that one was little more than bones and shreds of leather, another was so ballooned with gas it could not bend its limbs but only totter, and that a third had the steel sutures the surgeons had clipped onto its arteries still dangling from its opened chest, but once you got past the first few rows of them, they all started to merge into one heaving thing moving at you. Steadily. Hungrily. Endlessly.

  "Come one, come all," said Marvello softly, staring out at them. "Come one, come all."

  He took a pull at the flask, replaced it, and leaned into the microphone, standing firmly on the balls of his little feet.

  "Juicy, juicy, juicy," he crooned, watching the front curve of them filling in the midway. "Lots of blood, lots of blood, lots of blood. Lots of fresh, chewy flesh too, friends, lot6 of it. Sweet, sweet flesh like you haven't had between your teeth since god alone knows how long. Yummy, yummy, yummy."

  He reached down to push a button and a soft red coiling of light began making its way round and round the opening of the tent, pulsing like a newly opened, still bleeding wound. They saw it, of course, they always saw it, and they headed for it just like flies heading for shit, as they were meant to.

  He'd often noticed those among them that reminded him of people he'd known and he'd wonder wad that old Charlie Carter he just saw stumble in there? Was that whatsisname who used to sell papers at that newsstand on the corner of

  Dearborn and Washington? Was that Clara? She had a great laugh, did Clara. He could remember just how it felt when he held her shoulders. He'd sure as hell hoped that thing hadn't been Clara.

  They started cramming themselves into the entrance. Somehow or other they always managed it. There were snarls and struggles and so on, but in the end they always somehow managed it.

  "That's right, dear hearts," he said, smiling down at them, but he knew there weren't any of them listening to him now, not after he'd turned on the doorway lights. "Have a fine old time, enjoy yourselves to the fullest."

  At this stage of the game he could sing old sweet songs if it struck his fancy, and he sometimes did, just for the hell of it, or because he was feeling mellow. From here on in, the midway did all the work. From here on in, it was purely automatic. But the old habits die hard.

  "Let that one-legged gentleman through, folks," he said after he'd observed a hopping fragment get pushed aside by the eager multitude for the fourth or fifth time. "There may not be all that much left of him, but I absolutely guarantee that what there is is just as hungry as the most complete among you. I absolutely guarantee it."

  He smiled quietly and took another pull from his flask. What the hell, he thought, what the hell, the night's work was drawing softly and successfully to its close, so what the hell.

  The damnedest thing was that once he actually had seen someone he knew go into the tent, really and truly had, no doubt about it, but the whole thing had given him a real hoot, a genuine kick in the ass, praise be, because it'd been a man he'd truly hated, Mr. Homer Garner, one-time proprietor of the Garner Hardware Company of Joplin, a real revolting son of a bitch who'd done him dirty back when he was just a kid and really needed the money and didn't know any better way to get hold of it. It had given Marvello undiluted joy to observe the even uglier than usual, pus-leaking remnants of Mr. Homer Garner shamble helplessly into the tent.

  He was glad, you might even say genuinely grateful, that he'd never seen anybody he liked go in there since he was certain he would not have enjoyed that in the least. Of course the danger of such a thing happening had diminished considerably through the years. He didn't suppose there were all that many left in either category, those he'd hated or those he'd liked, when you came right down to it. He supposed most of them were dead by now, really dead, not just shuffling around dead. Dead and buried dead, the good old-fashioned way.

  Marvello leaned over the rostrum, propping himself on spread fingertips, and sized up the midway. The crowd was down to the final stragglers now, the really timid ones, wandering in at last from wherever they'd been shyly hiding their bones. It wouldn't be long at all, now. The show was almost over.

  He glanced down at the glowing readout, watching how the number was growing at a slower and slower pace now the big rush was over. They kind of relaxed when there weren't so many of them around. They almost sort of strolled in when you got down to the last little trickle.

  The readout showed a good score, of course. It was always a good score.

  "You don't want to miss it," he called out softly to the final, staggering arrivals; then he took another pull, washing the booze around his teeth before he swallowed it. "Nossir, you don't want to miss it."

  One left, now, just one. Standing out there in a cockeyed stance, swaying, looking around with its dim eyes, pawing the air with its shriveled little hands. A tough one to turn, this baby. A real hard sell.

  "All your friends and loved ones are in there, my handsome fellow," he said, smiling out at the solitary figure.

  On an impulse, he turned off the lights moving around the doorway, the lights that pulled them in no matter what. He felt like bringing this one in himself.

  "Why be lonely?" he called out, cooing, first waving his cane in the air to get the thing's attention, and then, when he'd caught its eye, pointing the cane at the entrance and giving its tip a tiny, emphasizing twirl. "Come, come, your solitude serves no purpose, and it's self-inflicted to boot. Cut it short, old chum, cut it short. All those near and dear are but a few short steps away, a mere totter or two. They are all eagerly awaiting your august presence inside. They're all inside."

  It looked up at Marvello, aware of him for the first time. Rags of skin swung from its forearms, blowing slightly in the night breeze. It took a step or two forward. It lifted its head and sucked the odors coming from the tent through its nose hole.

  "Smells even better in the tent, friend," he said. "Say, don't be a spoilsport, don't be a party pooper. You only lived once."

  It wavered idiotically for another half minute and then, its jaws starting to work, starting to wetten, it began to shuffle steadily ahead. Marvello nodded down at it, finishing off his flask as it passed by him and stepped into the darkness of the entrance. There was a final electrical crackling, a last wisp of smoke.

  Marvello carefully slipped the flask back into its pocket, threw a series of switches, then hopped gracefully off the platform just a moment before it began to pull itself smoothly back into a slot which had opened at the bottom of the tent.

  The showman stood on the hot, dry, dusty ground, his hands in his pockets, and watched, interested as always, while the entire midway slowly started to fold in on itself. Marvello never failed to enjoy this moment. Sometimes he felt it was, in a way, the best part of the whole show.

  First the poles shortened, smoothly telescoping, then the wires and ropes rolled back in perfect synchronization onto hidden spools as the fabric of the main and smaller tents sucked inward, b
eginning with large tucks, then working down to smaller and smaller ones, all of them tidy, all of them precise, and soon the whole thing had reduced itself to a neat rectangular block which confined and sculpted itself still further until, when it had neatly resolved itself unmistakably into the shape of a huge truck, highly polished panels rose from all around its base to form the truck's sides and top and wheel guards, and shiny bits of chrome and glass rotated into view to make up its grille and headlights and trim.

  There on the side of the truck, in proud, tall letters of glistening gold, a bold sign read:

  * MARVELLO’S * MIRACULOUS MEATPIES

  Marvello regarded the truck with satisfaction for a long moment before he walked to its side, opened its door, and made himself comfortable in the driver's seat. He turned the waiting ignition key and when the engine instantly began a strong, steady purring, he reached forward to the glove compartment, extracted the full bottle of whiskey waiting there, pulled its cork, and took two long, slow, deeply satisfactory swallows.

  He rolled down the window, looked out in a friendly fashion at the empty space which had been the midway just a little while before, and gave it a companionable wave. He drove smoothly across the soft bumpiness of the field until he reached the straight, flat Kansas highway, and there he turned northward, following the beams of his headlights onto his next gig.

  Best Friends

  God, love you to death, darling! Always forget completely how much, how deeply.

  What an absolutely adorable hat.

  Isn't this hideoud rain totally ghastly? Poor Muffin has positively given up because of it, you know. Just sits there brooding by the window, glaring out at all those silly drops thumping down on the terrace and won't listen to a single word I say about cheering up.

  Here we are.

  Stop here, driver. Here! By that little green awning with the fat doorman, damn it! Only now it's way back there. You may keep the change, not that you deserve it.

  Christ, it's absolutely beyond belief the sort of people one finds driving cabs these days! Did you see that shitty, third world glare he had the nerve to give me? He's probably got the makings of some idiotic bomb stuffed into his trunk with the explosives cooked up out of cow crap or whatever it is the papers say they use. I suppose we should all be grateful the bastards can't afford proper dynamite.

  Let's for God's sake get inside before we're both soaked.

  Oh, dear, now I get a look at it I really do wish I hadn't suggested this restaurant. I'm afraid it's caught on altogether far too well. Will you just look at all these ghastly people, for God's sake. Do you know any of them?

  My God, honestly, do you see the hair on that woman?'

  It slipped my mind one's actually starting to read about this place in the papers. Who was with whom and where they sat and what they ate and was it well prepared and did they look adoringly at one another and did they fuck at the end of the day?

  Well, high time, here somebody comes to look after us at last.

  Yes, Andre, so good to see you. Yes, it has been too long. Yes, that table will do quite nicely; you've remembered it's one of my favorites. I'll sit on the banquette and Miss Tournier will sit on the chair. Thank you, Andre.

  As if he'd dare give me anything but a satisfactory table, darling. Just let him try and he'd see the fur fly and doesn't he know it!

  God, it's been years, hasn't it? Positively aged, for heaven's sake! Now you must tell me all that's happened and leave absolutely nothing out. For instance: You did leave him, didn't you? Charles, I mean?

  Good! I knew you'd come to your senses, given enough time. Just knew it. You're a sensible girl, Melanie, darling. Always have been. I don't care what they say.

  Yes, Jacques. Good afternoon. Yes, I'll have my usual but I don't know what Mademoiselle Tournier will have. What would you care for, darling? Kir Royal. There you are, Jacques. No, I think we'll have the menu a little bit later, thank you just the same.

  I simply can't believe it. Did you see that, darling? Did you see how he positively pushed that damned menu at us? Honestly, it's gotten so this is almost a fucking Greek restaurant. I feel as if I'm sitting at some greasy counter with workmen and things like that all over the place, for God's sake. The staff will be walking around in their shirtsleeves wearing aprons the next thing you know. Really!

  Anyhow, enough of that. It's not worth our time, let's go on to something that matters.

  What happened with Charles, darling? Did you get rid of him on your own, or was it Cissy's doing?

  Oh, good for you! Did it all by yourself, did you? Cissy must have been that proud. He wasn't worthy of you, darling, but of course you know that. How absolutely marvelous of you to kick him out on his ass, the bastard, the shit.

  I only wish I could say the same about the way I handled things between Howard and myself. I suppose you've heard something of it, most everyone seems to. Unfortunately.

  Of course, the whole business has been profoundly embarrassing. I'm usually pretty good about finishing off entanglements, as you know, but not this time. I'm afraid poor Howard really had my number.

  God, did you hear that?

  Did you hear me say that?

  Poor Howard, indeed! He still has my number, or would have if he were still alive. I might as well face it, it'll be months before I manage to work that son of a bitch completely out of my system. Positively months. I just know it.

  It was those sad eyes of his that always did me in, darling. I couldn't help it, no matter what unforgivably stinking, crappy thing he did, those goddamn sad eyes of his always managed to get right through to me. Always, damn it! Honestly, he was such a waif.

  Anyway, when Muffin saw I was floundering she came to my rescue and made a quick end to it. She was marvelous, of course, simply marvelous.

  Honestly, you really should have seen the look on Howard's face, I tell you it was a perfect scream! I don't think I've ever seen anyone so completely and absolutely astonished.

  No sad looks from him then, darling—no time for that act with Muffin coming at him from every direction like a little white blur—only bulging eyes and a gaping mouth and his hands flailing every which way trying to bat her off!

  The astounding, the absolutely remarkable thing is that she never actually touched the bastard! Didn't leave so much as one tiny scratch to get people thinking.

  And it was such fun, you see, because I knew just what she was up to. It was like watching a movie on the late show that I'd seen before in a theater.

  She maneuvered him so neatly, darling! She positively herded him just as if she were a dear little sheepdog. All the way from the bar across the carpet to the terrace and over the railing and down he went to land, kerplunk, on a taxi parked in front of our building.

  I just hope its driver was like that clod that bungled us over here, I really do. The impact mashed the cab's top in completely and set that quaint sign on its roof to blinking over and over and over like a yellow Christmas tree ornament. And there was Howard gaping up at me from the middle of the ruin.

  Of course now his sad look was playing on my side, darling. That was sweet, I can tell you. They asked around and learned how gloomy poor Howard had always been, how blue, and of course they saw how sympathetic and understanding I'd been to him, and death by suicide it was!

  If only all life's problems could be solved so simply.

  So it's over, and so is he. Over with a vengeance. Over in spades. Thank God for Muffin is all I can say.

  We are so lucky, aren't we?

  Oh, shit, here comes Jacques with his bloody menu again. Are you sure you're up to it, dear? Very well, then. Actually I don't even need the damned thing because I know exactly what I want.

  I'll have the grilled turbot, Jacques, with that nice mustard sauce. You know the one I mean.

  Well, if it doesn't happen to be on your precious menu today I'm sure you can have the chef make it up, can't you? Would you like that, darling? Good. You'll enjoy it. And a nic
e bottle of Meursault, Jacques. And would you like a nice little salad, darling? And a nice little salad, Jacques. Yes, for both of us. Of course for both of us. Something light, naturally. Thank you, Jacques.

  Muffin still hasn't quite entirely forgiven me for my lapse. Her brooding isn't altogether because of the rain, I'm afraid, but I don't blame her. After all, it hasn't been a full three weeks since it happened and, besides, she id starting to soften. She even gave me really rather a sweet look this morning just before I left the apartment to meet you. We'll patch things up. Muffin and I always patch things up.

  Of course, there are some that can't.

  You've heard about Maddy and Clara.

  You really haven't? My God, where have you been, darling? I thought absolutely everyone knew about it. Oh, of course, you were in the south of France. And it's obvious you haven't read this morning's Post.

  Well, I hadn't expected I'd have to do it, but I'd better bring you up to speed before I can tell you about what happened last night. Then I'll tell you about what I'd like us to do.

  Actually it's really something we absolutely must do, as I'm sure you'll agree once you've heard the story.

  We really must do it.

  It seems poor Maddy went head over heels for this man she met vacationing in Rio last winter. She fell absolutely and hopelessly in love with him, poor dear, and couldn't get over it no matter how hard she tried. Just went totally silly over him, gaga as a schoolgirl.

  God, you should have seen her with him; it was horrible, absolutely ghastly, to see a grown-up female like Maddy gaping at this perfectly ordinary man with an unbelievably adoring simper spread over her face. I mean it positively made you want to puke, to throw up right then and there, all over the two of them.

  Clara put up with it for quite some time. Everybody's agreed completely that she really was extremely tolerant and very, very understanding, but the damned thing just kept going on and on and getting worse and worse and Maddy kept falling deeper and deeper in love, and it was becoming increasingly obvious that Clara was running out of patience, and naturally we were all becoming quite worried about what she might do.