They took the lake route south, skipping the Loop thereby, with the intention of continuing due south until well out of the city. The traffic had thickened somewhat over what it had been when they started out in the middle of the morning; Randall was forced to give his attention to the wheel. Neither of them felt like talking and it gave an excuse not to.
They had left the Loop area behind them when Randall spoke up, "Cynthia—"
"Yes."
"We ought to tell somebody. I’m going to ask the next cop we see to call the Waukegan station."
"Teddy!"
"Don’t worry. I’ll give him some stall that will make them investigate without making them suspicious of us. The old run-around—you know."
She knew his powers of invention were fertile enough to do such a job; she protested no more. A few blocks later Randall saw a patrolman standing on the sidewalk, warming himself in the sun, and watching some boys playing sand-lot football. He pulled up to the curb beside him. "Run down the window, Cyn."
She complied, then gave a sharp intake of breath and swallowed a scream. He did not scream, but he wanted to.
Outside the open window was no sunlight, no cops, no kids—nothing. Nothing but a gray and formless mist, pulsing slowly as if with inchoate life. They could see nothing of the city through it, not because it was too dense but because it was—empty. No sound came out of it; no movement showed in it.
It merged with the frame of the window and began to drift inside. Randall shouted, "Roll up the window!" She tried to obey, but her hands were nerveless; he reached across her and cranked it up himself, jamming it hard into its seat.
The sunny scene was restored; through the glass they saw the patrolman, the boisterous game, the sidewalk, and the city beyond. Cynthia put a hand on his arm. "Drive on, Teddy!"
"Wait a minute," he said tensely, and turned to the window beside him. Very cautiously he rolled it down—just a crack, less than an inch.
It was enough. The formless gray flux was out there, too; through the glass the city traffic and sunny street were plain, through the opening—nothing.
"Drive on, Teddy—please!"
She need not have urged him; he was already gunning the car ahead with a jerk. heir house is not exactly on the Gulf, but the water can be seen from the hilltop near it. The village where they do their shopping has only eight hundred people in it, but it seems to be enough for them. They do not care much for company, anyway, except their own. They get a lot of that. When he goes out to the vegetable patch, or to the fields, she goes along, taking with her such woman’s work as she can carry and do in her lap. If they go to town, they go together, hand in hand—always.
He wears a beard, but it is not so much a peculiarity as a necessity, for there is not a mirror in the entire house. They do have one peculiarity which would mark them as odd in any community, if anyone knew about it, but it is of such a nature that no one else would know.
When they go to bed at night, before he turns out the light, he handcuffs one of his wrists to one of hers.
THE MAN WHO TRAVELED IN ELEPHANTS
Rain streamed across the bus’s window. John Watts peered out at wooded hills, content despite the weather. As long as he was rolling, moving, traveling, the ache of loneliness was somewhat quenched. He could close his eyes and imagine that Martha was seated beside him.
They had always traveled together; they had honeymooned covering his sales territory. In time they had covered the entire country—Route 66, with the Indians’ booths by the highway, Route 1, up through the District, the Pennsylvania Turnpike, zipping in and out through the mountain tunnels, himself hunched over the wheel and Martha beside him, handling the maps and figuring the mileage to their next stop.
He recalled one of Martha’s friends saying, "But, dear, don’t you get tired of it?"
He could hear Martha’s bubbly laugh, "With forty-eight wide and wonderful states to see, grow tired? Besides, there is always something new—fairs and expositions and things."
"But when you’ve seen one fair you’ve seen them all."
"You think there is no difference between the Santa Barbara Fiesta and the Fort Worth Fat Stock Show? Anyhow," Martha had gone on, "Johnny and I are country cousins; we like to stare at the tall buildings and get freckles on the roofs of our mouths."
"Do be sensible, Martha." The woman had turned to him. "John, isn’t it time that you two were settling down and making something out of your lives?"
Such people tired him. "It’s for the ‘possums," he had told her solemnly. "They like to travel."
"The opossums? What in the world is he talking about, Martha?"
Martha had shot him a private glance, then dead-panned, "Oh, I’m sorry! You see, Johnny raises baby ‘possums in his umbilicus."
"I’m equipped for it," he had confirmed, patting his round stomach.
That had settled her hash! He had never been able to stand people who gave advice "for your own good."
Martha had read somewhere that a litter of newborn opossums would no more than fill a teaspoon and that as many as six in a litter were often orphans through lack of facilities in mother ‘possum’s pouch to take care of them all.
They had immediately formed the Society for the Rescue and Sustenance of the Other Six ‘Possums, and Johnny himself had been unanimously selected—by Martha—as the site of Father Johnny’s ‘Possum Town.
They had had other imaginary pets, too. Martha and he had hoped for children; when none came, their family had filled out with invisible little animals: Mr. Jenkins, the little gray burro who advised them about motels, Chipmink the chattering chipmunk, who lived in the glove compartment, Mus Followalongus the traveling mouse, who never said anything but who would bite unexpectedly, especially around Martha’s knees.
They were all gone now; they had gradually faded away for lack of Martha’s gay, infectious spirit to keep them in health. Even Bindlestiff, who was not invisible, was no longer with him. Bindlestiff was a dog they had picked up beside the road, far out in the desert, given water and succor and received in return his large uncritical heart. Bindlestiff had traveled with them thereafter, until he, too, had been called away, shortly after Martha.
John Watts wondered about Bindlestiff. Did he roam free in the Dog Star, in a land lush with rabbits and uncovered garbage pails? More likely he was with Martha, sitting on her feet and getting in the way. Johnny hoped so. e sighed and turned his attention to the passengers. A thin, very elderly woman leaned across the aisle and said, "Going to the fair, young man?"
He started. It was twenty years since anyone had called him "young man." "Unh? Yes, certainly." They were all going to the Fair: the bus was a special.
"You like going to fairs?"
"Very much." He knew that her inane remarks were formal gambits to start a conversation. He did not resent it; lonely old women have need of talk with strangers—and so did he. Besides, he liked perky old women. They seemed the very spirit of America to him, putting him in mind of church sociables and farm kitchens—and covered wagons.
"I like fairs, too," she went on. "I even used to exhibit—quince jelly and my Crossing-the-Jordan pattern."
"Blue ribbons, I’ll bet."
"Some," she admitted, "but mostly I just liked to go to them. I’m Mrs. Alma Hill Evans. Mr. Evans was a great one for doings. Take the exposition when they opened the Panama Canal—but you wouldn’t rememher that."
John Watts admitted that he had not been there.
"It wasn’t the best of the lot, anyway. The Fair of ‘93, there was a fair for you: There’ll never be one that’ll even be a patch on that one."
"Until this one, perhaps?"
"This one? Pish and tush! Size isn’t everything." The All-American Exposition would certainly be the biggest thing yet—and the best. If only Martha were along, it would seem like heaven. The old lady changed the subject. "You’re a traveling man, aren’t you?"
He hesitated, then answered, "Yes."
"I can always tell. What line are you in, young man?"
He hesitated longer, then said flatly, "I travel in elephants."
She looked at him sharply and he wanted to explain, but loyalty to Martha kept his mouth shut. Martha had insisted that they treat their calling seriously, never explaining, never apologizing. They had taken it up when he had planned to retire; they had been talking of getting an acre of ground and doing something useful with radishes or rabbits, or such. Then, during their final trip over his sales route, Martha had announced after a long silence. "John, you don’t want to stop traveling."
"Eh? Don’t I? You mean we should keep the territory?"
"No, that’s done. But we won’t settle down, either."
"What do you want to do? Just gypsy around?"
"Not exactly. I think we need some new line to travel in."
"Hardware? Shoes? Ladies’ ready-to-wear?"
"No." She had stopped to think. "We ought to travel in something. It gives point to your movements. I think it ought to be something that doesn’t turn over too fast, so that we could have a really large territory, say the whole United States."
"Battleships perhaps?"
"Battleships are out of date, but that’s close." Then they had passed a barn with a tattered circus poster. "I’ve got it!" She had shouted. "Elephants! We’ll travel in elephants."
"Elephants, eh? Rather hard to carry samples."
"We don’t need to. Everybody knows what an elephant looks like. Isn’t that right, Mr. Jenkins?" The invisible burro had agreed with Martha, as he always did; the matter was settled.
Martha had known just how to go about it. "First we make a survey. We’ll have to comb the United States from corner to corner before we’ll be ready to take orders." or ten years they had conducted the survey. It was an excuse to visit every fair, zoo, exposition, stock show, circus, or punkin doings anywhere, for were they not all prospective customers? Even national parks and other natural wonders were included in the survey, for how was one to tell where a pressing need for an elephant might turn up? Martha had treated the matter with a straight face and had kept a dog-eared notebook: "La Brea Tar Pits, Los Angeles—surplus of elephants, obsolete type, in these parts about 25,000 years ago." "Philadelphia—sell at least six to the Union League." "Brookfield Zoo, Chicago—African elephants, rare." "Gallup, New Mexico—stone elephants east of town, very beautiful." "Riverside, California, Elephant Barbershop—brace owner to buy mascot." "Portland, Oregon—query Douglas Fir Association. Recite Road to Mandalay. Same for Southern Pine group. N.B. this calls for trip to Gulf Coast as soon as we finish with rodeo in Laramie."
Ten years and they had enjoyed every mile of it. The survey was still unfinished when Martha had been taken. John wondered if she had buttonholed Saint Peter about the elephant situation in the Holy City. He’d bet a nickel she had.
But he could not admit to a stranger that traveling in elephants was just his wife’s excuse for traveling around the country they loved.
The old woman did not press the matter. "I knew a man once who sold mongooses," she said cheerfully. "Or is it ‘mongeese’? He had been in the exterminator business and—what does that driver think he is doing?"
The big bus had been rolling along easily despite the driving rain. Now it was swerving, skidding. It lurched sickeningly—and crashed.
John Watts banged his head against the seat in front. He was picking himself up, dazed, not too sure where he was, when Mrs. Evans’ thin, confident soprano oriented him. "Nothing to get excited about, folks. I’ve been expecting this—and you can see it didn’t hurt a bit."
John Watts admitted that he himself was unhurt. He peered near-sightedly around, then fumbled on the sloping floor for his glasses. He found them, broken. He shrugged and put them aside; once they arrived he could dig a spare pair out of his bags.
"Now let’s see what has happened," Mrs. Evans went on. "Come along, young man." He followed obediently.
The right wheel of the bus leaned drunkenly against the curb of the approach to a bridge. The driver was standing in the rain, dabbing at a cut on his cheek. "I couldn’t help it," he was saying. "A dog ran across the road and I tried to avoid it."
"You might have killed us!" a woman complained.
"Don’t cry till you’re hurt," advised Mrs. Evans. "Now let’s get back into the bus while the driver phones for someone to pick us up."
John Watts hung back to peer over the side of the canyon spanned by the bridge. The ground dropped away steeply; almost under him were large, mean-looking rocks. He shivered and got back into the bus.
The relief car came along very promptly, or else he must have dozed. The latter, he decided, for the rain had stopped and the sun was breaking through the clouds. The relief driver thrust his head in the door and shouted, "Come on, folks! Time’s a-wastin’! Climb out and climb in." Hurrying, John stumbled as he got aboard. The new driver gave him a hand. "‘Smatter, Pop? Get shaken up?"
"I’m all right, thanks."
"Sure you are. Never better."
He found a seat by Mrs. Evans, who smiled and said, "Isn’t it a heavenly day?"
He agreed. It was a beautiful day, now that the storm had broken. Great fleecy clouds tumbling up into warm blue sky, a smell of clean wet pavement, drenched fields and green things growing—he ay back and savored it. While he was soaking it up a great double rainbow formed and blazed in the eastern sky. He looked at them and made two wishes, one for himself and one for Martha. The rainbows’ colors seemed to be reflected in everything he saw. Even the other passengers seemed younger, happier, better dressed, now that the sun was out. He felt light-hearted, almost free from his aching loneliness.
They were there in jig time; the new driver more than made up the lost minutes. A great arch stretched across the road: THE ALL-AMERICAN CELEBRATION AND EXPOSITION OF ARTS and under it PEACE AND GOOD WILL TO ALL. They drove through and sighed to a stop.
Mrs. Evans hopped up. "Got a date—must run!" She trotted to the door, then called back, "See you on the midway, young man," and disappeared in the crowd.
John Watts got out last and turned to speak to the driver. "Oh, uh, about my baggage. I want to—"
The driver had started his engine again. "Don’t worry about your baggage," he called out. "You’ll be taken care of." The huge bus moved away.
"But—" John Watts stopped; the bus was gone. All very well—but what was he to do without his glasses?
But there were sounds of carnival behind him, that decided him. After all, he thought, tomorrow will do. If anything is too far away for me to see, I can always walk closer. He joined the queue at the gate and went in.
It was undeniably the greatest show ever assembled for the wonderment of mankind. It was twice as big as all outdoors, brighter than bright lights, newer than new, stupendous, magnificent, breathtaking, awe inspiring, supercolossal, incredible—and a lot of fun. Every community in America had sent its own best to this amazing show. The marvels of P. T. Barnum, of Ripley, and of all Tom Edison’s godsons had been gathered in one spot. From up and down a broad continent the riches of a richly endowed land and the products of a clever and industrious people had been assembled, along with their folk festivals, their annual blowouts, their celebrations, and their treasured carnival customs. The result was as American as strawberry shortcake and as gaudy as a Christmas tree, and it all lay there before him, noisy and full of life and crowded with happy, holiday people
Johnny Watts took a deep breath and plunged into it.
He started with the Fort Worth Southwestern Exposition and Fat Stock Show and spent an hour admiring gentle, white-faced steers, as wide and square as flat-topped desks, scrubbed and curried, with their hair parted neatly from skull to base of spine, then day-old little black lambs on rubbery stalks of legs, too new to know themselves, fat ewes, their broad backs, paddled flatter and flatter by grave-eyed boys intent on blue ribbons. Next door he found the Pomona Fair with solid matronly Percherons and dainty
Palominos from the Kellog Ranch.
And harness racing. Martha and he had always loved harness racing. He picked out a likely looking nag of the famous Dan Patch line, bet and won, then moved on, as there was so much more to see. Other country fairs were just beyond, apples from Yakima, the cherry festival from Beaumont and Banning, Georgia’s peaches. Somewhere off beyond him a band was beating out, "Ioway, Ioway, that’s where the tall corn grows!"
Directly in front of him was a pink cotton candy booth.
Martha had loved the stuff. Whether at Madison Square Garden or at Imperial County’s fair grounds she had always headed first for the cotton candy booth. "The big size, honey?" he muttered to himself. He felt that if he were to look around he would see her nodding. "The large size, please," he said to the vendor. he carnie was elderly, dressed in a frock coat and stiff shirt. He handled the pink gossamer with dignified grace. "Certainly, sir, there is no other size." He twirled the paper cornucopia and presented it. Johnny handed him a half dollar. The man flexed and opened his fingers; the coin disappeared. That appeared to end the matter.
"The candy is fifty cents?" Johnny asked diffidently.
"Not at all, sir." The old showman plucked the coin from Johnny’s lapel and handed it back. "On the house—I see you are with it. After all, what is money?"
"Why, thank you, but, uh, I'm not really ‘with it,’ you know."
The old man shrugged. "If you wish to go incognito, who am I to dispute you? But your money is no good here."
"Uh, if you say so."
"You will see."
He felt something brush against his leg. It was a dog of the same breed, or lack of breed, as Bindlestiff had been. It looked amazingly like Bindlestiff. The dog looked up and waggled its whole body.
The Unpleasant Profession Of Jonathan Hoag And Other Stories Page 13