The trip from Toledo to Cleveland takes, under normal conditions, and in a decent car, about two hours and a half. Clinton made repeated efforts to maintain the legal speed limits, but as his mind was absorbed mostly by other matters, the car seemed to charge forward on its own at the rate of some eighty miles an hour. In no time at all, it seemed, Clinton was guiding the car into the driveway at Seminary Street.
There was one light burning behind the upstairs window shade of Ralph’s bedroom, but the rest of the place was dark. It had the look of disaster about it. Clinton felt that any passer-by could take one look at the house and see clearly reflected in it the anguish of the people who lived inside. In his shocked condition, with his new, keener perception of the world, he assigned qualities of sense and spirit to everything he encountered; and the house was sad; contemptuous, too, of all the wickedness that had taken place in its shelter; as he passed under the porch roof, he touched its supporting pillar and found that it had gone cold. He opened the door and went inside.
“Ralph!” he called. “I’m back!” He went up to Ralph’s room. The old man was propped up in bed. There were newspapers on the floor and in his lap, but he did not seem to have been reading them. The crease between his eyebrows was deeper, his nasal folds were wrinkled, the edges of his mouth turned down. Like an unhappy old monkey, dyspeptic, bewildered, he turned his wide-open eyes to Clinton.
“How’d you do? The car handle all right?”
“Yeah, it handled good. You want some food?”
“Naw, I had baloney, beer. —You left her there okay, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“Her bein’ there is the right thing.”
“Sure it is.”
The old man looked at the foot of the bed.
“He was here.”
“Berry-berry? He was here?”
“Yeah,” Ralph said. “He left, maybe an hour ago.” The old man studied his wrist, and then he began to rub it with his thumb, trying to form a noodle.
Clinton said, “What’d he have to say?”
“Oh, he—uh—needs some money.”
“I mean, what’d he say about—what happened?”
The old man seemed ashamed. He mumbled evasively: “He didn’t have much to say. He—uh, said it was a terrible thing, just terrible.”
Neither Ralph nor Clinton could look at each other. Ralph made a thorough study of his entire left arm. Clinton looked at the bedside stand, the telephone, the medicine bottles, Annabel’s ship’s-wheel lamp, the ash tray.
“Where is he?” Clinton said.
“I don’t know.”
“I guess he’ll go out and maybe get drunk, huh?”
Ralph shrugged. “I suppose. I suppose that’s what anybody’d do. Thing like this, you know, it’s a shock, it’s a terrible thing. If Echo O’Brien was an ordinary girl, it’d been bad enough. But she was a queen, for godsake.”
Clinton nodded. “Does he figure to go up with us? Tuesday?”
“I don’t know about that. Doesn’t look like he’ll be able to make it. He wants some money.”
“From you?”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“To go away?”
Ralph made no direct answer to this question. He looked straight ahead for a moment. His face bore the blank and senseless expression of a person who imagines himself alone. When finally he spoke, there seemed to be no wind supporting his voice: “He wasn’t sure he’d be able to make the funeral.”
Now it happened that at this moment Clinton’s eye went to the bottom shelf of the bedside stand and came to rest on a copy of the Cleveland Telephone Directory. This thick book held his full attention for a long time; even as he spoke brief, mechanical phrases to Ralph, his mind was caught and held by it.
Ralph said, “He was talking something about he wanted money. I told him we’d look into that—at another time. But I let him have twenty. You think I did right?”
“I guess.” Clinton studied the image of Mercury on the cover of the directory, the glistening body, the winged helmet, the feathered feet, the hand held high, pointing, beckoning. “Ralph, I want to ask you a favor. Can I borrow the car? For another while?”
“I wonder,” Ralph said. Then he lay back on his pillow, folded his hands across his stomach, and looked at the ceiling: “You know, I’ve made it a point never to—never to clamp down on you bozos.”
“Can I use it?” Clinton said.
Ralph nodded; but he had not even heard Clinton’s request. Clinton started out of the room. Ralph said, “Where you going?”
“Just out for a while. You want anything?”
“No, I don’t need anything.”
“G’bye.”
Clinton hurried down the stairs, pausing on the landing just long enough to light a cigarette; and then he proceeded out the front door and into the car. As he put the key in the dashboard, something cautioned him against driving at any reckless speed: it seemed important to do everything well, with no push or strain; it was essential that he maintain just the right rhythm, the simple thoughtless pace appropriate to each moment as it arrived. Evenness. Perfect evenness was needed.
Down Apple Mountain’s long main street. Across the wooden bridge at the edge of town. The dirt road, and a turn to the left. Apples in the air, sweet and rotting. An arbor of gnarled branches over the driveway. Slow. Slow through the slush and the puddles. Continue, but slow.
See anything? Just a light. The truck is gone. Stop! Reverse gears. Back up. Slow through the mud puddles, and even slower at the road. Back out of here. Leave the car somewhere.
Why?
No questions now. Put the car away, anywhere. Out of sight. A gray shed, empty and abandoned. Park behind it. Put the lights out, keys in your pocket. Walk back to the house. No hurry. You have half an hour. Maybe more.
What will happen at the house?
No questions. One step, one moment at a time. No thinking. Don’t spoil it with thinking. Smell the sweetness of the air. See the black earth. All the apples going back into it. The black earth eating the apples, silently sucking in the sweetness. Walk around the puddles. The rainfall helps to rot the apples. And nature thrives on what it kills.
There’s a light in the downstairs bedroom. Listen at the window. No sounds. Silence. Are they asleep? Never mind. Go to the back door. Something scurrying about under the house. Field mice. Now wipe your feet. The door is unlocked. Step inside. Quiet. Untie your shoes; take them off. Go softly up the stairs; careful of the bottles on the steps; keep close to the wall and the boards won’t creak.
Now you’re here. You can do anything.
But what?
Don’t think. Thinking makes fear. Turn on the light.
Won’t they see it?
Of course not. —There’s a bottle under the bed. Go ahead. Why not? Just a couple of swallows. Now the drawer, the bottom drawer. Softly, slowly. No hurry.
Mercury! Hello, Mercury.
Now breathe deep and slow. Relax, drop your shoulders, don’t hunch. Don’t tighten up. Now open the directory.
Oh, God!
Shut up. Now take it in your hand. It’s heavy, and cool. It’s wonderful the way they make these things to fit in your hand, just right. Comfortable.
Ugly.
What’s ugly? That’s a word. That’s thinking. Don’t think. Why not have a cigarette and one more swallow from the bottle. There. Now, better put the bottle under the bed.
If I just pressed my finger against this trigger, if I just squeezed . . .
Shh-hh. One thing at a time.
Turn out that light, you won’t need it. Now loosen the bulb. Unscrew it, one full turn. He’ll think it’s burnt out. Perfect. Now sit down and wait. Don’t tighten up and don’t think. Just sit.
Maybe if my notebook was here, I could . . .
You don’t need it. You can remember it all, every word you’ve ever written down.
Dearest friend, dearest Bernice, I am afraid you find me at a low ebb as I hav
e been fighting the blues something awful. Isn’t it ironical that I have no one to turn to . . .
It’s true. I can remember it all. Maybe I won’t have to carry it with me, ever again. I’ll be free to just . . .
Besides, I am getting curious about Echo O’Brien, the old maid from Toledo that’s coming to visit, so why shouldn’t I get a look at her first, as there is always time for suicide at a later date.
Will I use this gun? On myself?
Don’t be such a fatass phony. You know goddam well what you’re going to do with that gun. You think you’re some kind of a saint? the only killer in the family is Berry-berry? Swinging his tail around, shoving his meat into any woman he wants? Let the slobs pay the piper. Just smile, move in, screw, disappearo! Or maybe stick around for a while, just long enough to slice off her nipples for her.
Then I’ve come here to kill him. Will I do it?
Take it slow. Wait and see. One moment at a time.
Can a ghost keep a notebook?
Ha.
Dearest Annabel, such beautiful weather here, Echo took me for drive in country Sunday aft, wildflowers all over, I thrive in summer but Echo restless. Gets dolled up and rattles her car keys. But God will find way.
Berry-berry doesn’t seem to ever get bothered with these thoughts. He just says, “Isn’t it wild?”
So I went to sleep and had this crummy dream about Shirley and her little brother, Willy.
“Ize told once that lavender was my most becomin’ color, so I spent an entire Sunday dyeing just about everything I own, even my underwear and my panda.”
This is a really crummy dream. Anyway, this person came along and started to climb up the candied-apple tree. He had a real wild look in his eye and you could tell he was the kind of a creep that absolutely despises all little kids. So he started to shake this high branch for all he was worth, and Willy fell out of the tree and got killed. I mean it wasn’t any accident.
“Can she bake a cherry pie, Willy boy, Willy boy?
Can she bake a cherry pie, charming Willy?”
I thought about Echo’s eyes, how immense they are, and how lonesome, and that day at the airport, the way she kept filling her eyes up with everything she saw, so when it was over she’d have something left. “Berry-berry” I said, “you love her, don’t you?” He looked at the picture of Abraham Lincoln. “Yeah, I guess I do.”
I mean it wasn’t any accident.
“Listen, if I had to put caviar in her crankcase every ten minutes, I wouldn’t sell her for a million bucks. I just had such a scrumptious drive comin down. Made it in just under two hours. I mean, sweetheart, I moved!”
No accident, because there was this stranger in the apple tree that despised all little kids.
You don’t even have to say his last name. Just say Berry-berry.
If I was to just press my finger against it, if I was to just squeeze . . .
Sh-hh. One thing at a time. Don’t think.
My head aches. I want to go home.
It’s too late now. Listen.
I want to go home.
It’s too late. Here he comes.
Listen.
The sounds of the truck outside, the motor stopping, the slamming of the door. Silence. More silence. Footsteps on the porch. The front door opening. And closing.
Sit still. Wait. It’s too late now.
Voices downstairs. Two voices. Berry-berry and a woman. The woman is laughing. Now they’re in the kitchen.
THE WOMAN: “I’ll come up later, baby; later, I promise.”
BERRY-BERRY: “Later’ll be too late. Come on.”
THE WOMAN: “Honest, baby, I can’t. I got to go toi-toi.”
BERRY-BERRY: “You just went toi-toi. Come on.”
THE WOMAN: “Please, sweetie, don’t force me. Honestly, you’re the best thing, but when you’re drunk, I . . . Oh, please, don’t, baby, you hurt me bad. I’ll do anything you say. I know you don’t mean to hurt me, baby, but . . . Let go! Please!”
Footsteps on the stairs. A long sustained crashing sound. Bottles falling, bottles breaking.
THE WOMAN: “For Chrisake! Oh, baby, you need a housekeeper!” (Laughter.) “Jesus, this is spooky. Where’s the goddam light?”
The light! They’ll see me!
Don’t worry. The bulb is unscrewed. Remember?
What if they tighten it up?
They wont.
I didn’t know he’d have a woman with him.
She won’t stay long. Easy, breathe easy, breathe through your mouth. Relax, and don’t move.
Now they’re on the bed.
Listen.
THE WOMAN: “Here, I’ll help you.”
BERRY-BERRY: “Help me. Help me.”
THE WOMAN: “There, baby, now just lay back and rest. Will you do that for mamma?”
BERRY-BERRY: “Don’t leave me, don’t leave.”
THE WOMAN: “I wouldn’t leave you, baby. Mamma’s here.”
BERRY-BERRY: “Lie down with me.”
THE WOMAN: “What makes you want to hurt Mamma? Please, sweetheart. You want to put your hand there? All right, baby, put your hand there.”
A long silence.
BERRY-BERRY: “Are you Annabel?”
THE WOMAN: “That’s right, baby; I’m Annabel.”
Annabel? Does he think she’s Annabel?
Don’t think. Don’t think.
But he thinks she’s Anna . . .
Don’t think! Thoughts make fear, fear makes noise, noise makes trouble. Ss-shh. Listen. Wait.
BERRY-BERRY: “We shouldn’t do this. You shouldn’t be here.”
THE WOMAN: “You want me to go?”
BERRY-BERRY: “No! Stay!”
THE WOMAN: “Let go, baby. I mean it. You’re hurtin’ me.
Movements on the bed. Violent motion. Heavy breathing. A sudden hard slap. The woman’s voice, loud, heavy with anger: “I’ll kill—you sonofabitch! I swear, I’ll kill!” Another impact of fist against flesh, this time harder. Berry-berry groaning with pain.
THE WOMAN: “You sorry sonofabitch. Now lay there and die, will you do that for me? You sorry, sorry bastard?”
The woman stands for a moment at the bedside, breathing heavily, then turns quickly to the door, and goes out, slamming it behind her. Footsteps on the stairs, and on the first floor. The front door opening, closing. Silence. The motor starting, the truck backing up the driveway.
What’s wrong with Berry-berry? What did she do to him?
Keep your seat. Listen. Hear him breathing? Quick, hysterical breaths. Now he’s sobbing.
And now he’s crying.
She made him cry.
Berry-berry?
Crying?
Crying, yes.
Clinton shuddered from head to foot, every inch of him, inside and out. And this sudden violent activity of his body was like a death rattle.
In this instant, with no motion other than this profound spasm, he felt himself transported to some high place, far above the house. This high place was not even a cloud, as one might travel to in imagination or in a dream. Nor was it any place at all: it was simply distance, suspension, a view: and it was terrifying to be there.
Far below, on the ground, in the midst of an orchard so large that it extended all the way to the sides of the earth, sat Berry-berry’s tiny and fragile house. In the surrounding trees of this vast orchard, perched high on all the naked limbs, were tens of thousands of people, all children, and all singing. —All of the people he knew or had ever known were in these branches, and he recognized them, even Annabel and Ralph, but now they were child-people. Each person, of these tens of thousands, sang his individual song, each one separate, different; and it was impossible to make out the words or melodies. Heard from so great a height, all of them together made one sound that was like the wind. But then the wind itself came along, and it made no sound at all. It crept in from all sides, invisible and silent. Clinton knew there was no way to warn anyone of the approach of a
menace that could neither be seen nor heard; therefore he had no choice but to witness whatever might take place. So the wind blew, and it blew with such force that all the branches of all the trees, even the highest ones, began to shake so violently that all of the tiny singers were blown away. The branches were bare and silent again and there were no children left in the world.
In the little house, on the top floor, Clinton saw two young men. One of them lay on the bed, fast asleep. The other, seated in a chair, a revolver in his lap, was crying.
Then he himself was back in the room, back into himself. On the bed, Berry-berry was sleeping. Suddenly Clinton knew in an instant all that had taken place. He remembered the scene in the basement on Seminary Street, the terrible telephone call at noon on Sunday, and the nightmare drive to Toledo, the gaping garage doors; and he felt the wetness of his own face and, in his lap, the cold dead weight of the revolver.
Now he could cry. He cried tears that came from the deepest parts of him. It was like a convulsion, a hemorrhage of tears, and the fluids ran from his nose and from his eyes, they rose in him from every corner of his heart. He made no attempt to silence himself, or to stifle this flow. He even encouraged it. He found sorrows hidden deep in the bowels of his memory and of his spirit, agonies he had never known existed. And he dredged them up from all these inside crevices and paraded them before the eye of his mind. Every image that hovered there, even for an instant—not only of Echo, Annabel, Shirley, Bernice, Berry-berry, Ralph, of the invisible little Willy—but of any face he could remember from casual encounters on streetcars, in drugstores, in crowds, even those of dream-people from other ages, other countries—each of them brought forth a new torrent of these profound waters of his sorrow. His lungs pressed against his heart, his stomach twisted and convulsed itself; and the pain became physical as he cried for all the dead children, transmuted, newly become adults, who had flown from the invisible stranger who shook the high branches of all the apple trees in all the orchards of the world.
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