The Hunger and Other Stories

by Charles Beaumont

  Hoover slapped the face of his companion, who had fallen asleep. “Come on, Max. Let’s us go talk about Claudette Colbert.”

  Mr. Fein opened his eyes. Hoover picked up his white silk scarf and started for the door. He turned, then, and there was an expression of great sorrow on his face. “And you don’t even know what tonight is,” he said.

  “Who—me?” Fein asked.

  “Tell him, Eddie. Or have you forgotten?”

  Mr. Pierce shook his head. “I don’t think I follow you, Lew.”

  “Like I told you,” Hoover said, to Fein; “he’s forgotten. Fred, tonight used to be the biggest in the year for us. All Fools Day. For years. And he didn’t even remember. It’s why I came by in the first place, and I was waiting, just hoping there that he would—but, Eddie, Eddie! You’re dead, kid. Dead.” He wheeled, snorted and stopped. “Wait. Got to use the bathroom,” he said.

  Mr. Pierce pulled himself from his regret and from his memories of the parties they had all thrown on this memorable date so many times in the past. He jumped up. “You can’t do that, Lew.”

  “Huh?”

  “It’s—broken, Lew. Some trouble with the pipes.”

  Fein had wandered back to the kitchen.

  “But,” Hoover said, “I’ve got to.”

  “It doesn’t work. I’m sorry.”

  Hoover grinned bitterly. “I got people to round up,” he muttered. “People that’s friends, that remember what the hell tonight is. Time and tide, besides . . .”

  “It is out of order,” Mr. Pierce said, firmly.

  “Okay, then I’ll wash my hands. Can I wash my hands?”

  “The sink is stopped up.”

  “Eddie, you’re telling me the sink is stopped up?”

  “Yes, that’s right!” Mr. Pierce almost shouted.

  “What are you so jumpy about?”

  “I’m not jumpy, Lew: I’m tired. It’s all broke, that’s all. Can’t you understand a simple fact like that?”

  Hoover sobered slightly, or seemed to. He looked closely at his friend. “I’m not sure,” he said, and pushed forward, stumbling into the bedroom.

  “Stop!” Mr. Pierce blenched and threw out his arms. But the tall man in evening dress had already crossed the room.

  “Lew, don’t spoil everything! It’ll be okay. Just leave, will you!”

  Hoover paused at the bathroom door. His hand slipped on the knob, crept back upon it and revolved.

  Mr. Pierce spoke in a strong, soft voice now. “Don’t go in there.” He looked terribly small, terribly frail, terribly helpless.

  “When you gotta go,” Hoover grinned, “you gotta go. If you don’t think so, Eddie, you’re all wet. Anyway, I feel a little sick. Sick. Verstay?”

  As the tall man turned and started in, Mr. Pierce sighed and followed.

  Hoover had a glass partially filled with water when he happened to glance at the curtained tub.

  His eyes moved to the slit.

  “Holy God! Eddie, what—”

  Mr. Pierce’s arm traveled in a wide arc. The cleaver, which he had plucked off the medicine shelf, sank deep. He wrenched it loose and swung it another time.

  Then he pulled open the shower curtain and lifted the now crumpled figure and tumbled it into the tub and did not look at it.

  With a soft rag he wiped his hands, thinking: Lew! Thinking: Well, that leaves Jimmy, anyway, and Len and . . . It would still be all right.

  Trembling, Mr. Pierce surveyed himself in the mirror and returned to the living room.

  Mr. Fein was not asleep any more. He was holding a Miró reproduction upside down and making confused sounds.

  “How’d it go?” Fein inquired.

  “Well,” Mr. Pierce said, “Lew isn’t feeling so good. He’s decided to stay a while.”

  “I mean about the toilet.”

  “It’s still broken.”

  Fein got up, staggered, giggled and quickly regained himself. “Take a look at it,” he said.

  “No—no need. Thanks anyway. I think it’ll probably be all right until tomorrow. I’ve got a plumber coming—”

  “Save your money. That’s my business, plumbing. Don’t have a snake here, do you? What’d she do, back up on you?”

  “Who?”

  “Toilet.”

  “Oh. Yes: backed up on me.”

  “Well, we’ll take a look-see.”

  “Ah—have a drink first.”

  “All righty. Say, tough about Mr. Hoover.”

  “Too much liquor.”

  “Uh-huh. It’s okay, though: we came in my car.”

  Mr. Pierce poured two stiff ones and handed a glass to the red-faced man. “You two just met tonight, is that it?” he asked, hopefully.

  “ ’S right. Fine fella, Hoover. Speaks very high of you. Made a bet you’d remember what tonight was. Well, bottoms up! Over the lips and past the gums, look out, stomach, here it comes!”

  “Cheers.”

  “Shame about it, you ask me. No woman is worth losing your friends over, Mr. Fierst.”

  “I suppose not. Uh—you just decided on the spur of the moment to visit me? I mean, Lew—he didn’t happen to mention to anybody else you were coming over here?”

  “Didn’t exactly know it myself till we were here. Crazy fella, what he told me was we were goin’ to see some broads. I mean, you know, girls. Then,” Fein giggled, “we turn up here. I think—say, you got a snake? Take a jiffy if you do. See, I’m on vacation now, otherwise I’d have my tools.”

  “I think perhaps I do.”

  “Well, let’s get at it. Maybe a plunger would do the trick.”

  “We’ll find something for you,” Mr. Pierce said, and led the way.

  “Must really be nice,” Fein said, “to have buddies. Little town where I hail from, not too many friends. That Hoover fella, he told me you got more buddies than anybody he ever knew.”

  “I had a lot of friends once, yes,” Mr. Pierce said. “I will again.”

  “Sure you will,” Fein said.

  He had taken no more than two steps inside the bathroom when he gasped, wheeled, gasped again and fell, clawing, to the pink tile floor.

  Mr. Pierce steadied himself, removed from Mr. Fein’s neck the long thin knife used for trimming fat, and lifted and pulled and strained and at last managed to get the heavy figure into the bathtub.

  Water sloshed over the sides, now, but it was not even like red ink any more, but deeper red, and gummy.

  Mr. Pierce sighed, permitted one short spasm to shake his body, sighed two more times, and slipped on the oilcloth apron.

  He had it almost tied, when:

  There was a knock. Only one, but the glass-squared door shook in its poor-fitting jamb and sent sharp sounds trembling throughout the apartment.

  Mr. Pierce froze.

  Then there was another sound; a latch opening, a squeak, a voice:

  “Happy All Fools Day! Hey—anybody home? Eddie, you old sea-dog, where the devil are you? Hey! It’s Len! Just dropped in to say howdy.”

  “Hi!” Mr. Pierce called out. He removed the apron. “Be with you in a second.”

  “Jimmy get here yet?”

  “No. Not yet.”

  Mr. Pierce stood erect in the tiny bathroom, looked about, and washed his hands.

  Then he walked out with a brand-new sort of smile and a brand-new look in his eyes.

  “Good to see you, Len. It’s been a long time,” he said, wearily.

  The Train

  Neely was the little hand on a clock, he was the mercury in a thermometer: he moved and he didn’t move. Hours it had taken just to pull off the bedclothes, because Mother slept quietly and the train had stopped lurching—hours—and now he must push his body up and swing his legs over the side of the berth.

  He lay barely breathing, his toes strained against the cool hardness of metal. How long since they turned the lights off? From the corner of his eye he looked at Mother and even from the back he could tell she had not yet
fallen into a deep sleep. Any little thing woke her up when she was like this. Sometimes she sat right up when the train passed over a rough track section. So he knew he couldn’t move any further. Because then she would wake and turn over and ask him what was the matter.

  Neely thought of excuses rapidly, rejected rapidly. Say that he had to go to the bathroom? No; she’d want to help him and that would be terrible. Besides, he’d already been—twice, in fact. That he was turning over? No; she’d want to know why the covers were off. Ill, his stomach hurt—no, no, that would spoil everything. There would be the pills that he couldn’t swallow and the porters running to telegraph doctors and everything in a mess.

  There was no excuse. He’d have to wait, for—something.

  Soft light from the moon and moving stars streamed in through the half-shaded windows, making the small bed cool and blue. The heavy green curtains were black now, and the light made the sheets crisp. Neely loved the coolness and the comfort of the berth and he knew that tomorrow night he would sleep. He would slide in between the clean linen, press it tight, watch Mother load up the green net, take one look around him before the overhead lamp snapped off and then relax and let the gentle swaying put him to sleep. He looked forward to tomorrow night. But it had been almost a year since the last time and there was much to do, much to see and feel. . . . So he had gone to bed promptly and without a fuss and waited.

  Neely clenched his teeth and tried not to listen to the wheels. He kept his eyes open, fighting all the seductive sensations. He had to stay awake! For the Trip.

  The train groaned and swayed and rocked and clicked and far ahead it cried mournfully, hot steam rushing out of its iron throat like dragon’s breath in the dark unfriendly night.

  Clicketa-clicketa-clackata-clicketa . . . Go-to-sleep-go-to-sleep . . . clicketa-clicketa . . .

  Neely fought so hard he almost didn’t hear the snore. It was a soft snore, but sharp, like a cough, and when he did hear, his heart began to pain him. He waited, praying. The sound came again and now he could tell: it had happened. Mother was really asleep—sound asleep. She wouldn’t hear him now. She wouldn’t wake and ask him questions and scold him.

  He could leave now.

  Quickly then, synchronizing each short move with each considerable noise or jar, Neely climbed out of the berth. He stopped when his feet touched the rough floor-carpet and watched Mother. She had not stirred. The snores became regular and deeper. Neely smiled and pulled the black suitcase out from under the berth and took from it his old terrycloth bathrobe and leather slippers. Then he carefully pulled the curtains together and buttoned them.

  The car was dark and silent: only a dim blue light at the end and the sound of the distant iron wheels. The heavy curtains were all drawn shut, some bulging with the weight of restive bodies, some falling over regularly set shoes. The quiet green hall of sleep.

  Neely grinned and thrilled. Things started to come back. It was the same Train he loved and thought about all the time, the same. And he could spend hours going through it, all by himself this time, with no one to direct him or stop him. It was here, right before him, what he’d dreamed about during the long dull days at school and in the ugly house where Mother and Father lived.

  He held his robe and slippers and tiptoed past the sealed berths into the narrow rocking hall. He stopped for a moment before the brown-painted case with its ominous brown ax, thought briefly of breaking the glass and grabbing the ax and screaming “Fire! Fire!” and shrugged and went into the room with the curtain for a door.

  It glistened with five spotless white sinks and a maze of silver tubes. It was the room Neely loved best, next to the Phantom Car, so he stood on the cold floor for a time, playing with every delicious memory. And thinking, Nothing has changed—it won’t ever change!

  In the tiny light, he tried out the smells first. The strong smells of iron and soap and stale cigar smoke, of good leather and bright spittoons—more fragrant than the blood of every vanquished giant who ever lived. Then the sign, which started in serious dignity: It Would Be Appreciated If Passengers— He tried out each experience, one by one. . . .

  The full-length mirror held the image of the small boy and flattered him. Neely ran a hand through his blond hair and made several hideous faces and then adjusted his robe until it was perfect. He thought of going into the watercloset and reading the sign there, but that took time and there was much to see. There was the Phantom Car, waiting, miles ahead.

  He did not see the face peering out from the opening in the corner curtains, the big friendly face with the laughing eyes.

  “Hey, young fella, you goin’ in or what?”

  The voice was an explosion, a rumbling exploded nightmare, before it became familiar.

  It was the porter. And he slept where car porters sleep.

  “Hello,” Neely said, feeling caught.

  The man laughed and shook his head. “Boy, your mama know you up this late?”

  “Yes sir, she does. . . .”

  “Well, okay, all right, get on with what you doin’. Don’t let me disturb you!”

  The curtains closed again and Neely could hear the chuckling.

  He walked out of the room back into the hall and let the air go out of his lungs. Then he went to the heavy door and pushed hard and got it open.

  The air was cold between cars: he could feel it blowing through all the hidden openings. He tried to balance between the sections and giggled as he fell and had to grab the rail.

  It was all the same! But better, infinitely better, because he was alone, all by himself to see it. The necklace of stars moving slowly out the window, the moaning iron-rubbing-iron and the great wonderful comfort of even the dangerous sliding plates.

  He knew he’d have to hurry. It must be very late—hadn’t the porter said so? Maybe almost morning. But he had to sort out things and this seemed the best place to get it over with.

  Mother had asked him once why he loved the Train and he hadn’t been able to answer her. She explained that a train was just a way of getting from one place to another, just like a car or a bus or an airplane, and she said she was worried about him always talking about trains.

  Why did he feel the way he did? Why did he call the train his World, from the beginning?

  Looking out the window at the terrible, desolate and unknown night, with all its lonely fears and terrors, he saw, suddenly, one of the reasons. It was—that he was being safe and in danger, at the same time. All the ugly things were whistling by, and he was going right through them. And none of them touched him. He could laugh at them!

  The train went over a soft spot in the bed and the track began another curve. Out the platform window the tiny head of this hollow iron snake could presently be seen, gasping silent orange fire.

  Neely balanced himself again and thought about how different it was in an automobile. There you could only sit, and Mother and Father and other people would talk and argue, and you smelled their breath and felt their heavy nearness and you wanted all the time to stretch out your legs, far, always, and you could only sit. And the airplane was no better: just a big automobile in the sky, nothing to do but sit, nothing to see but air. . . .

  Neely stopped thinking of reasons. Who cared, anyway? They didn’t matter. What mattered was seeing the Train again.

  He walked from Tecumseh into Chief Powhatan, through Pocahontas and Larimee and Thundercloud. And with every step, the other life faded. When he came to Mt. Rainier he had forgotten what Mother looked like. At General Robt. E. Lee all memories of Father vanished. With each step, the other life peeled away.

  When Neely came at last to Montclair, there was only the Train. The green walls and the fuzzy rough seat arms and the Men room and rolling rocking through night. He wasn’t a ten-year-old boy any more, but a part—a living part—of the Train.

  What was it Mother had said, about everything being different this time—about his growing up and facing life?

  Neely pushed hard on the hand
le, his throat tight, mouth dry, wondering vaguely why the last car was always the hardest to open.

  He walked into Montclair.

  There were no lamps, but he could see clearly now. It was the last thrill. No curtains in this car, no line of shoes or friendly porter sleeping. But strange chairs, unattached to the floor, sitting by tables, silver ashtrays leading to the very end. And everything peculiar, somehow . . . as though nobody had ever, ever been here before. Except, perhaps, ghosts.

  The Phantom Car, where he was always—even with Mother—most excited and thrilled and delightfully frightened.

  The sounds of the Train were loudest here. The metal ashtrays bobbled on their heavy foundations and the leather-covered magazines shifted slightly. And there was the big glass door at the rear . . .

  Neely tiptoed slowly down the hall of chairs, looking forward to every moment and despising every moment that slipped into the past. He walked, sure that the car had some sort of meaning for him—for it was really his destination: he had never wanted to walk toward the engine.

  The moon slid behind clouds and it was dark except for small ribbons of glow which fell faintly across the fixtures.

  Neely walked.

  The door to the observation platform stuck, and for a moment he was terrified, because the moon was still behind clouds. But he tugged and managed to get it open.

  Listen, Neely! Listen, to the big sharp wind now, how it screams all around you! And see into the night, into the million fear-filled shadows, the cold and lifeless night. Feel the strong iron wheels bump and pound, carrying you through it all. And most important—he went to the railing and put his small hands about the metal—most important, Neely, let it come true. Let it come true!

  “Take him by plane, Dora, for God’s sake. Don’t let him get disappointed. It’s the least we can do.”

  It was as if he only now heard the words: they whispered deep inside his ears, inside his head.

  “Or let me drive you up this time. You know what he’s made of this thing. Let the kid have that pleasure!”

  Strange words that didn’t make any sense. . . . But, Father had used them. Yes. And then, Mother had said: