Foundations of Fear

by David G. Hartwell

“Where are you now?”

  “County. But you don’t need—”

  “I’m coming right down,” said Miss Phoebe.

  “No, Miss Phoebe, I didn’t call you for that. You go back to b—”

  Miss Phoebe hung up.

  Miss Phoebe strode into the County Jail with grim familiarity, and before her, red tape disappeared like confetti in a blast furnace. Twelve minutes after she arrived she had Don out of his cell and into a private room, his crisp new jail-record card before her, and was regarding him with a strange expression of wooden ferocity.

  “Sit there,” she said, as the door clicked shut behind an awed and reverberating policeman.

  Don sat. He was rumpled and sleepy, angry and hurt, but he smiled when he said, “I never thought you’d come. I never expected that, Miss Phoebe.”

  She did not respond. Instead she said coldly, “Indeed? Well, young man, the matters I have to discuss will not wait.” She sat down opposite him and picked up the card.

  “Miss Phoebe,” he said, “could you be wrong about what you said about me and girls . . . that original sin business, and all? I’m all mixed up, Miss Phoebe. I’m all mixed up!” In his face was a desperate appeal.

  “Be quiet,” she said sternly. She was studying the card. “This,” she said, putting the card down on the table with a dry snap, “tells a great deal, but says nothing. Public nuisance, indecent exposure, suspicion of rape, impairing the morals of a minor, resisting an officer, and destruction of city property. Would you care to explain this—this catalogue to me?”

  “What you mean, tell you what happened?”

  “That is what I mean.”

  “Miss Phoebe, where is she? What they done with her?”

  “With whom? You mean the girl? I do not know; moreover, it doesn’t concern me and it should no longer concern you. Didn’t she get you into this?”

  “I got her into it. Look, could you find out, Miss Phoebe?”

  “I do not know what I will do. You’d better explain to me what happened.”

  Again the look of appeal, while she waited glacially. He scratched his head hard with both hands at once. “Well, we went to your house.”

  “I am aware of that.”

  “Well, you wasn’t home so we went out. She said take her father’s car. I got a license; it was all right. So we went an’ got the car and rode around. Well, we went to a place an’ she showed me how to dance some. We went somewheres else an’ ate. Then we parked over by the lake. Then, well, a cop come over and poked around an’ made some trouble an’ I got mad an’ next thing you know here we are.”

  “I asked you,” said Miss Phoebe evenly, “what happened?”

  “Aw-w.” It was a long-drawn sound, an admixture of shame and irritation. “We were in the car an’ this cop came pussyfootin’ up. He had a big flashlight this long. I seen him comin’. When he got to the car we was all right. I mean, I had my arm around Joyce, but that’s all.”

  “What had you been doing?”

  “Talkin’, that’s all, just talkin’, and . . .”

  “And what?”

  “Miss Phoebe,” he blurted, “I always been able to say anything to you I wanted, about anything. Listen, I got to tell you about this. That thing that happened, the way it is with me and girls because of the rat, well, it just wasn’t there with Joyce, it was nothin’, it was like it never happened. Look, you and me, we had that thing with the hands; it was . . . I can’t say it, you know how good it was. Well, with Joyce it was somepin’ different. It was like I could fly. I never felt like that before. Miss Phoebe, I had too much these last few days, I don’t know what goes on . . . you was right, you was always right, but this I had with Joyce, that was right too, and they can’t both be right.” He reached across the table, not quite far enough to touch her. The reaching was in his eyes and his voice.

  Miss Phoebe stiffened a spine already straight as a bowstring. “I have asked you a simple question and all you can do is gibber at me. What happened in that car?”

  Slowly he came back to the room, the hard chair, the bright light, Miss Phoebe’s implacable face. “That cop,” he said. “He claimed he seen us. Said he was goin’ to run us in, I said what for, he said carryin’ on like that in a public place. There was a lot of argument. Next thing you know he told Joyce to open her dress, he said when it was the way he seen it before he’d let me know. Joyce she begun to cry an’ I tol’ her not to do it, an’ the cop said if I was goin’ to act like that he would run us in for sure. You know, I got the idea if she’d done it he’da left us alone after?

  “So I got real mad, I climbed out of the car, I tol’ him we ain’t done nothin’, he pushes me one side, he shines the light in on Joyce. She squinchin’ down in the seat, cryin’, he says, ‘Come on, you, you know what to do.’ I hit the flashlight. I on’y meant to get the light off her, but I guess I hit it kind of hard. It came up and clonked him in the teeth. Busted the flashlight too. That’s the city property I destroyed. He started to cuss and I tol’ him not to. He hit me and opened the car door an’ shoved me in. He got in the back an’ took out his gun and tol’ me to drive to the station house.” He shrugged. “So I had to. That’s all.”

  “It is not all. You have not told me what you did before the policeman came.”

  He looked at her, startled. “Why, I—we—” His face flamed, “I love her,” he said, with difficulty, as if he spoke words in a new and troublesome tongue. “I mean I . . . do, that’s all.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I kissed her.”

  “What else did you do?”

  “I—” He brought up one hand, made a vague circular gesture, dropped the hand. He met her gaze. “Like when you love somebody, that’s all.”

  “Are you going to tell me exactly what you did, or are you not?”

  “Miss Phoebe . . .” he whispered, “I ain’t never seen you look like that.”

  “I want the whole filthy story,” she said. She leaned forward so far that her chin was only a couple of inches from the tabletop. Her protruding, milky eyes seemed to whirl, then it was as if a curtain over them had been twitched aside, and they blazed.

  Don stood up. “Miss Phoebe,” he said. “Miss Phoebe . . .” It was the voice of terror itself.

  Then a strange thing happened. It may have been the mere fact of his rising, of being able, for a moment, to stand over her, look down on her. “Miss Phoebe,” he said, “there—ain’t—no—filthy—story.”

  She got up and without another word marched to the door. As she opened it the boy raised his fists. His wrists and forearms corded and writhed. His head went back, his lungs filled, and with all his strength he shouted the filthiest word he knew. It had one syllable, it was sibilant and explosive, it was immensely satisfying.

  Miss Phoebe stopped, barely in balance between one pace and the next, momentarily paralyzed. It was like the breaking of the drive-coil on a motion picture projector.

  “They locked her up,” said Don hoarsely. “They took her away with two floozies an’ a ole woman with DT’s. She ain’t never goin’ to see me again. Her ole man’ll kill me if he ever sets eyes on me. You were all I had left. Get the hell out of here . . .”

  She reached the door as it was opened from the other side by a policeman, who said, “What’s goin’ on here?”

  “Incorrigible,” Miss Phoebe spat, and went out. They took Don back to his cell.

  The courtroom was dark and its pew-like seats were almost empty. Outside it was raining, and the statue of Justice had a broken nose. Don sat with his head in his hands, not caring about the case then being heard, not caring about his own, not caring about people or things or feelings. For five days he had not cared about the whitewashed cell he had shared with the bicycle thief; the two prunes and weak coffee for breakfast, the blare of the radio in the inner court; the day in, day out screaming of the man on the third tier who hoarsely yelled, “I din’t do it I din’t do it I din’t do . . .”

 
; His name was called and he was led or shoved—he didn’t care which—before the bench. A man took his hand and put it on a book held by another man who said something rapidly. “I do,” said Don. And then Joyce was there, led up by a tired kindly old fellow with eyes like hers and an unhappy mouth. Don looked at her once and was sure she wasn’t even trying to recognize his existence. If she had left her hands at her sides, she was close enough for him to have touched one of them secretly, for they stood side by side, facing the judge. But she kept her hands in front of her and stood with her eyes closed, with her whole face closed, her lashes down on her cheeks like little barred gates.

  The cop, the lousy cop was there too, and he reeled off things about Don and things about Joyce that were things they hadn’t done, couldn’t have done, wouldn’t do . . . he cared about that for a moment, but as he listened it seemed very clear that what the cop was saying was about two other people who knew a lot about flesh and nothing about love; and after that he stopped caring again.

  When the cop was finished, the kindly tired man came forward and said that he would press no charges against this young man if he promised he would not see his daughter again until she was twenty-one. The judge pushed down his glasses and looked over them at Don. “Will you make that promise?”

  Don looked at the tired man, who turned away. He looked at Joyce, whose eyes were closed. “Sure,” he told the judge.

  There was some talk about respecting the laws of society which were there to protect innocence, and how things would be pretty bad if Don ever appeared before that bench again, and next thing he knew he was being led through the corridors back to the jail, where they returned the wallet and fountain pen they had taken away from him, made him sign a book, unlocked three sets of doors and turned him loose. He stood in the rain and saw, half a block away, Joyce and her father getting into a cab.

  About two hours later one of the jail guards came out and saw him. “Hey, boy. You like it here?”

  Don pulled the wet hair out of his eyes and looked at the man, and turned and walked off without saying anything.

  “Well, hello!”

  “Now you get away from me, girl. You’re just going to get me in trouble and I don’t want no trouble.”

  “I won’t make any trouble for you, really I won’t. Don’t you want to talk to me?”

  “Look, you know me, you heard about me. Hey, you been sick?”

  “No.”

  “You look like you been sick. I was sick a whole lot. Fellow down on his luck, everything happens. Here comes the old lady from the delicatessen. She’ll see us.”

  “That’s all right.”

  “She’ll see you, she knows you, she’ll see you talkin’ to me. I don’t want no trouble.”

  “There won’t be any trouble. Please don’t be afraid. I’m not afraid of you.”

  “I ain’t scared of you either but one night that young fellow of yours, that tall skinny one, he said he’ll throw me under a train if I talk to you.”

  “I have no fellow.”

  “Yes you have, that tall skin—”

  “Not anymore. Not anymore . . . talk to me for a while. Please talk to me.”

  “You sure? You sure he ain’t . . . you ain’t . . .”

  “I’m sure. He’s gone, he doesn’t write, he doesn’t care.”

  “You been sick.”

  “No, no, no, no!—I want to tell you something: if ever you eat your heart out over something, hoping and wishing for it, dreaming and wanting it, doing everything you can to make yourself fit for it, and then that something comes along, know what to do?”

  “I do’ wan’ no trouble . . . yea, grab it!”

  “No. Run! Close your eyes and turn your back and run away. Because wanting something you’ve never had hurts, sometimes, but not as much as having it and then losing it.”

  “I never had nothing.”

  “You did so. And you were locked up for years.”

  “I didn’t have it, girl. I used it. It wasn’t mine.”

  “You didn’t lose it, then—ah, I see!”

  “If a cop comes along he’ll pinch me just because I’m talkin’ to you. I’m just a bum, I’m down on my luck, we can’t stand out here like this.”

  “Over there, then. Coffee.”

  “I ain’t got but four cents.”

  “Come on. I have enough.”

  “What’sa matter with you, you want to talk to a bum like me!”

  “Come on, come on . . . listen, listen to this:

  “ ‘It is late last night the dog was speaking of you; the snipe was speaking of you in her deep marsh. It is you are the lonely bird throughout the woods; and that you may be without a mate until you find me.

  “ ‘You promised me and you said a lie to me, that you would be before me where the sheep are flocked. I gave a whistle and three hundred cries to you; and I found nothing there but fleeting lamb.

  “ ‘You promised me a thing that was hard for you, a ship of gold under a silver mast; twelve towns and a market in all of them, and a fine white court by the side of the sea.

  “ ‘You promised me a thing that is not possible; that you would give me gloves of the skin of a fish; that you would give me shoes of the skin of a bird, and a suit of the dearest silk in Ireland.

  “ ‘My mother said to me not to be talking with you, to-day or to-morrow or on Sunday. It was a bad time she took for telling me that, it was shutting the door after the house was robbed . . .

  “ ‘You have taken the east from me, you have taken the west from me, you have taken what is before me and what is behind me; you have taken the moon, you have taken the sun from me, and my fear is great you have taken God from me.’ ”

  “. . . That’s something I remembered. I remember, I remember everything.”

  “That’s a lonesome thing to remember.”

  “Yes . . . and no one knows who she was. A man called Yeats heard this Irish girl lamenting, and took it down.”

  “I don’t know, I seen you around, I never saw you like this, you been sick.”

  “Drink your coffee and we’ll have another cup.”

  Dear Miss Phoebe:

  Well dont fall over with surprise to get a letter from me I am not much at letter writing to any body and I never thot I would wind up writing to you.

  I know you was mad at me and I guess I was mad at you too. Why I am writing this is I am trying to figure out what it was all about. I know why I was mad I was mad because you said there was something dirty about what I did. Mentioning no names. I did not do nothing dirty and so thats why I was mad.

  But all I know about you Miss Phoebe is you was mad I dont know why. I never done nothing to you I was ascared to in the first place and anyway I thot you was my friend. I thot anytime there was something on my mind I could not figure it out, all I had to do was to tell you. This one time I was in more trouble then I ever had in my entire. All you did you got mad at me.

  Now if you want to stay mad at me thats your busnis but I wish you would tell me why. I wish we was freinds again but okay if you dont want to.

  Well write to me if you feel like it at the Seamans Institute thats where I am picking up my mail these days I took a ride on a tank ship and was sick most of the time but thats life.

  I am going to get a new fountain pen this one wont spell right (joke). So take it easy yours truly Don.

  Don came out of the Seaman’s Institute and stood looking at the square. A breeze lifted and dropped, carrying smells of fish and gasoline, spices, sea-salt, and a slight chill. Don buttoned up his pea-jacket and pushed his hands down into the pockets. Miss Phoebe’s letter was there, straight markings on inexpensive, efficient paper, the envelope torn almost in two because of the way he had opened it. He could see it in his mind’s eye without effort.

  My Dear Don:

  Your letter came as something of a surprise to me. I thought you might write, but not that you would claim unawareness of the reasons for my feelings toward you.
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br />   You will remember that I spent a good deal of time and energy in acquainting you with the nature of Good and the nature of Evil. I went even further and familiarized you with a kind of union between souls which, without me, would have been impossible to you. And I feel I made quite clear to you the fact that a certain state of grace is necessary to the achievement of these higher levels of being.

  Far from attempting to prove to me that you were a worthy pupil of the teachings I might have given you, you plunged immediately into actions which indicate that there is a complete confusion in your mind as to Good and Evil. You have grossly defiled yourself, almost as if you insisted upon being unfit. You engaged in foul and carnal practices which make a mockery of the pure meetings of the higher selves which once were possible to you.

  You should understand that the Sources of the power I once offered you are ancient and sacred and not to be taken lightly. Your complete lack of reverence for these antique matters is to me the most unforgivable part of your inexcusable conduct. The Great Thinkers who developed these powers in ancient times surely meant a better end for them than that they be given to young animals.

  Perhaps one day you will become capable of understanding the meaning of reverence, obedience, and honor to ancient mysteries. At that time I would be interested to hear from you again.

  Yours very truly,

  (Miss) Phoebe Watkins

  Don growled deep in his throat. Subsequent readings would serve to stew all the juices from the letter; one reading was sufficient for him to realize that in the note was no affection and no forgiveness. He remembered the birthday cake with a pang. He remembered the painful hot lump in his throat when she had ordered him to wash his face; she had cared whether he washed his face or not.

  He went slowly down to the street. He looked older; he felt older. He had used his seaman’s papers for something else besides entree to a clean and inexpensive dormitory. Twice he had thought he was near that strange, blazing loss of self he had experienced with Miss Phoebe, just in staring at the living might of the sea. Once, lying on his back on deck in a clear moonless night, he had been sure of it. There had been a sensation of having been chosen for something, of having been fingertip-close to some simple huge fact, some great normal coalescence of time and distance, a fusion and balance, like yin and Yang, in all things. But it had escaped him, and now it was of little assistance to him to know that his sole authority in such things considered him as disqualified.