The Listener

by Robert R. McCammon

  “Took you long enough,” Orchid said, with a sniffle. “Couldn’t you hear me?”

  He handed her the nice glass, and then he decided to say, “I was speakin’ to someone.”

  “I didn’t hear you on the telephone.”

  “Wasn’t on the telephone.”

  Her hand stopped with the nice glass near her mouth. Then she drank some water and let her scarfed head fall back as if she had been struck yet another blow from the deadly foe of life.

  “Mercy,” she said. “Mercy, mercy on me.”

  “You didn’t think it had gone away, did you?”

  “I didn’t want to know. Don’t want to know now.”

  Curtis thought of telling her She’s a girl ten years old, has a businessman father and a driver named Hartley who takes herself and her brother to school so she must be rich and live somewhere in a fine house but he did not, because that would be mean and his mama did not want to know. “Need anything else?” he asked.

  “Stay with me awhile,” she said. “Won’t you?”

  Curtis nodded. He sat down across from her bed in the tired chair that sagged under his slight weight and was colored the mottled hue of many grays.

  “Still rainin’,” she said.

  “Yes’m.”

  “I get kinda sad when it rains. Seems like a lonely sound, to me.”

  Curtis remained silent, knowing there was more to come. He wanted to listen to her, to allow her to spill out everything she was holding within, and that was something his mama had never understood.

  She took another drink of water and rolled the nice glass between her fragile hands. “Your daddy,” she said quietly, “proposed marriage to me in the rain. Did you know that?” She waited for him to shake his head, no. “He did. We came out of a dance, and we were walkin’ along the street. It started to rain, and I cuddled up next to him because he was just like…like a big mountain I could feel protected by. Oh, and he was a good dancer too, to be his size. But I remember…in the rain…I cuddled up close and he looked down into my face and kissed me. And right then…right then…before he asked me, I knew I was his. I knew I couldn’t belong to no other. Then he said them words: ‘Orchid, would you take me to be your husband?’ Them words…a woman don’t ever forget ’em. You’ll get your chance to say ’em to some girl someday, by-and-by. Then…I think we can be happy again.”

  “Yes’m,” Curtis said.

  “It is a hard thing,” said Orchid, “to watch somebody drift away from you. It is…a little death, I think. You try to figure out…what can you do, to make things right? You laugh when you feel like cryin’, and when you look across the room at the man you love…you just see a ghost standin’ there. Oh…hear that thunder? Just hollered right over our house, seemed like.”

  Curtis said, “I wish I could do somethin’ to make you feel better, mama. If you’d let me take you to see—”

  “No doctors,” she interrupted. “Uh uh. Cost too much money. Spent all that money takin’ you to see the doctors, and what good did that do?”

  I can’t help what I am, he wanted to say…but what would the noble Knights of the Round Table say to that, if they were in his shoes? They would not want to lay further hurt upon a defenseless creature like the woman who lay in the bed before him, and so he replied, “I can afford a doctor for you, mama.”

  “Barely,” she said. “Lord God, we’re just scrapin’ by as it is, you’re wantin’ to throw money away on a useless doctor?”

  Curtis had no answer for that, because she would hear no answer.

  “I am so tired,” she said.

  “I’ll let you get on to sleep, then.”

  “Not yet. Not just yet.” Orchid drank the rest of the water from the nice glass. “Tell me this,” she said after a pause. “How do you do…you know…that listenin’ thing? I mean…how do you talk with your mind?”

  Curtis had been about to get up, but now he eased back into the creaky chair because never ever had his mama asked him a question like this before. He thought about it a few seconds and formulated an answer. “At work…one of the other ’caps…we call him Brightboy…he can roll his tongue up like a rug somebody’s skidded on. Three or four folds in that thing. None of the others can do it. I can’t even think how to do it, but it’s natural to him. When I was in the fifth grade…there was a boy named Noah Walcott. On the playground one day I saw him catch a wasp in his hand. Bunch of other kids saw it too, he was puttin’ on a show. He clasped that wasp in his fist and he shook it like he was shakin’ dice…and then he put the wasp in his mouth. But it never stung him. Opened his mouth, and out it flew. I remember…he said wasps and hornets and everythin’ that stung was scared of him, and he’d never been stung and never would be.

  “And then,” Curtis went on, “there was that fella Beauley—we got to callin’ him ‘Beauty’—who worked at the station for awhile. You remember I told you about him?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  That didn’t surprise Curtis, because his mama did not listen.

  “Well…Beauley on his good days could tell you nearly nine times out of ten what the next person either comin’ into the station from the street or from the trackside would be wearin’, not to mention whether they’d be a man, woman or child. He’d say, ‘Next man comin’ in has got on a yellow bowtie and he’s wearin’ a blue shirt and two-tone shoes,’ and there the man would be. Or it would be, ‘Family comin’ in, man in a gray coat, woman with a flowery hat, little boy wearin’ white kneesocks.’ There they would be, sure as tellin’. Now other days, Beauley couldn’t seem to keep his own shoelaces tied and his cart on a straight line. Bossman had to fire Beauley because he started goin’ into trances, just standin’ there starin’ at nothin’. You don’t remember I told you this?”

  “You didn’t,” Orchid said.

  “I might be wrong then,” he told her, but he knew he was not. “What I’m sayin’ is…life is so full of mysteries that only the Good Father can answer. We can’t pierce the veil. I don’t know how I do what I do. It’s grown on me, is all I can say.”

  “This other one you’re speakin’ to…does this person seize it or try to cast it away?”

  “She seizes it. And if you’re startin’ to think I’ve found a girl, I’ll tell you that she’s ten years old and white. Her family’s got a driver.”

  “Have mercy,” Orchid muttered, but she was no longer listening to him. She was studying the nice glass with its gleaming of diamond-like facets around its base. “Waterford crystal,” she said. “Given to my grandmother by a colored gentleman from England, that long ago. Passed on down to me as a wedding gift from my mother. You’re named for this…Curtis Waterford. Very few like this one, I’m thinkin’. Most all the batch this came from broken and lost by now…unless they in a museum. I named you for this because I always thought it was such a beautiful and rare thing. You see?”

  “I do,” Curtis said.

  “Well…white people find out you can talk to people in your mind…you’re gonna wind up in a museum,” Orchid said. “Gonna wind up with your head in one of them display cases, after they take your brain out and cut it to pieces to study it. That’s the way of white people. Take somethin’ apart to study it, and then it’s broke.”

  “I’ll stay away from museums,” Curtis replied, with a wry smile.

  “They’ll drag you away from me, they find out ’bout this. Then I’ll lose you like I lost your daddy.” Orchid had finished her water; she held the nice glass out for Curtis, and he got up from his chair and took it. “Wash it up,” she said. “Dry it good and put it back where it was.”

  “Yes’m.”

  “Listen here, though…I’m thinkin’ we ought to go to the farm. Spend some time with Maw and Pap. Maybe move over there and be with ’em. Lord knows I hate to give up the house, but maybe the time has come.”

  “I thin
k that would be a good idea, for you,” said Curtis. “But I can’t go, mama. I like my work, I can’t give that up.”

  “Carryin’ bags all day long, you can’t give that up?”

  “I help people,” he said. “I help ’em get from here to there and back again. That’s what I do.”

  “You make that sound like a fine thing.”

  “To me,” he said, “it is.”

  Orchid let out a long sigh. “Ironheaded,” she said. “Just like your daddy.”

  “I believe that’s a compliment, and I’ll take it as such.”

  “Go on with y’self, then. Ain’t nothin’ more.”

  He spent a moment straightening the covers around her and helping her get situated for sleep. Suddenly she grasped his free hand and pressed it to her cheek.

  “I have not done right by you, son.” There was a hitch in her voice. “I am sorry for that.”

  He let his fingers cup her cheek. “It’s all right, mama,” he told her gently. “Don’t fret ’bout anythin’.”

  She held him there for a time, and he let himself be held.

  When she released him, he asked, “Want me to turn out the light?”

  “No,” she said, in a faraway voice; she was staring at the window where the rain trickled down. “No, I’ll leave the light on for awhile.”

  “All right, then. Goodnight.”

  “’Night to you.” She waited until he was almost out of the room, and then she said, “I love you, son. And your daddy would be very, very proud of you.”

  It took Curtis a few seconds to compose himself enough to answer, because coming from her that was a powerful statement. “Thank you, mama,” he said. “I love you too. And I thank you for listening to me tonight.”

  “Only got two ears. My head don’t work like yours.”

  He closed the door softly, rinsed out the nice glass in the kitchen and then dried it. He returned it to its place on the upper shelf, on its square of dark blue velvet. He went back to his room and read some more about the ancient knights, while he listened for his friend to come back if she needed him. She did not—this night, at least—so at last he closed the book after reading about the death of King Harmaunce of the Red City, and he found sleep a peaceful companion.

  Fourteen.

  It hinged on two things: timing, and the art of the sale.

  Pearly was waiting behind the wheel of the Ford, as rain pattered down upon the windshield from the slate-gray sky. He had pulled up to the curb next to the small public park a block south of the Harrington School, the exact same place he’d been on Monday and Tuesday afternoons. The Ford’s engine was running and the wipers swept back and forth. Pearly checked his wristwatch. It was twelve minutes after three. Hartley should be driving past any minute now.

  “Nerves?” Ginger asked from where she had slid down in the passenger seat and half-crouched on the floorboard.

  “I’m fine,” he answered, but he wished he had time for a cigarette; he did have some butterflies and he needed to smoke them out.

  “Good for you. My back’s fuckin’ breakin’,” said Donnie from the rear seat, where he also had contorted himself into a hidden position.

  Pearly said to Ginger, “Remember about the gun in the—”

  “Glovebox. Got it.” She gave him a tight grin, but her eyes were narrowed and hard. “Just do your job, detective. Everything else’ll be butter.”

  Pearly kept glancing into the left sideview mirror and then the rearview…sideview and rearview…sideview and rearview. The shining expensive cars of the wealthy families whose kids went to the Harrington School kept passing the Ford like a snooty parade, but still no sign of Hartley’s long maroon- colored 1933 Oldsmobile Touring Sedan. He gripped the steering wheel with both hands, ready to swing the Ford out from the curb as soon as Hartley had passed.

  Sideview…rearview…sideview…rearview.

  Timing and the art of the sale. Both were up to him. In probably less than ten minutes now, it would be a done deal if it went right. It came to him that he hoped the car would hold up; he’d put a lot of miles on it, driving back to Shreveport in the middle of the night on Friday to pick up Ginger and Donnie and then turning right around and bringing them to New Orleans, plus the driving he’d done for them here and up around Lake Pontchartrain at the swamp town of Kenner. The time was ticking away now. He checked his wristwatch again, seeing that only a couple of minutes had crept past since the last time he’d looked…and then suddenly he saw the Oldsmobile’s big radiator grill coming up on his left side in the sideview mirror. Hartley flashed his headlamps. The maroon car moved past at a stately pace. Did Nilla Ludenmere look back at the Ford through the rear window? Yes, she did. Was she still looking? Yes again.

  Nailed me, Pearly thought. He figured she’d seen him yesterday or this morning, but no matter. It was time to roll.

  “We’re on,” he said. He waited for Hartley to get about four car lengths ahead and then he pulled away from the curb and followed, keeping his distance. Over the weekend he had worked Ludenmere into thinking it was a real good idea for the Shreveport detective to ride backup when Hartley took the kids to and from school. There was the problem of keeping them from knowing they were being tailed—“watched over” in case the Orsi gang tried anything, as Pearly had put it to Ludenmere—so they wouldn’t get the wife all nervous, so Pearly had parked a couple of blocks away from the Garden District mansion in the mornings and again a couple of blocks away from the Harrington School in the afternoons, but the girl had nailed him. That was okay; there was no more need for that pretense. Still…old Glass-Eye had to be sold, because if he got his hand on that pistol in the glovebox the snatch would be busted and somebody was likely to get drilled.

  “Shit!” Donnie groaned. “I got a fuckin’ crick in my leg!”

  “Bite down on it.” There was nothing in Ginger’s voice but pure ice. “When he stops this rig you’d better be ready to move.”

  “Turnin’ right up ahead,” Pearly reported. The wipers swept back and forth across the rain-streaked glass. He sped up. “I don’t want to hit any lights.” He had spoken his thought aloud, and Ginger answered with a terse, “Lose him and you’re my goddamned supper.”

  “I won’t lose him. If he sees he’s gettin’ too far ahead he’ll slow down. Did the same thing Monday and yesterday. He changed the route yesterday, but both days we went through that—damn!” A brown dog had just loped across the street right in front of the Ford, nearly grazing the front fender.

  “What the hell?” Donnie yelped.

  “Keep your head down,” Ginger said. “You’re in cotton back there compared to me.”

  “We’re all right. Dog ran out in the street. Okay…there he is up ahead. Just saw his brake lights flash. I was sayin’…both days he went through that warehouse area, so I’m thinkin’ he’ll go through it again.”

  “Better be right, genius.”

  His temper flared at that one. “You’d just better be fast, honeypie. We’ll be comin’ to it in a couple of minutes, if we make this light.”

  His palms were damp on the wheel and his heart was pounding, but he found he wasn’t afraid. He was more excited than anything. Exhilarated would be the right word, he thought. The toughest part of this action so far had been convincing Ludenmere in one of their phone calls that even though the word was that Orsi had come to New Orleans it still wasn’t in his best interest to alert the city cops. I’ve got a friend on the force, been a detective for a couple of years, Pearly had told him. I’ll bring him to speed, he’ll make some private inquiries and keep it on the low. Trust me on this.

  They had to make the move today, because Jack Ludenmere’s trust could only go so far and Pearly had sensed he was running out of road.

  They passed through an area of small houses and a few vacant lots, and then they entered a warehouse district of
low, blocky buildings. A couple of trucks trundled by, but otherwise the only vehicles on this stretch of street were the Ford and the Oldsmobile. “This is it,” Pearly said, and he pressed the accelerator down and began flashing his headlamps. Almost immediately he saw Hartley’s brake lights flare. The touring sedan slowed to a crawl. Pearly said, “Ready?”

  There was no answer; there didn’t need to be. They were ready, and this was the moment.

  Pearly passed Hartley on the left, slowed the Ford and pulled slightly to the right so the chauffeur would have to stop against the curb. As Hartley pulled up beside him and stopped, Pearly was already reaching over Ginger to roll down the window.

  The chauffeur’s window rolled down. “What is it?” he asked, his voice tight.

  “Listen,” said Pearly in an easy tone, “Nilla’s already seen me, so that jig is up. But your left rear tire is goin’ flat. I think I can see a nail in it.”

  “It feels all right.”

  “You might want to stop at a gas station and get it checked. Come on, take a look and see what you think.” Pearly quickly got out of the car and started walking through the light rain around to the Oldsmobile’s left rear side.

  Hartley didn’t move.

  “Shit,” Ginger whispered from her crouched position. She was listening for the chauffeur’s door to open, and it wasn’t happening.

  “I see the nail,” Pearly said, thinking he had to get that bastard out and right now.

  “I can change the tire at the house,” Hartley answered.

  “Your call, Clay,” Pearly said; it was the first time he’d ever used the man’s name. “It’ll probably hold.” He cast another look at the supposedly injured tire and with a silent curse he started back around to the Ford. In about fifteen seconds Plan B was going to have to go into action, and with that gun in Hartley’s glovebox and the locks on the Oldsmobile’s doors Plan B was a bucketful of shit.