Night Gallery 2

by Rod Serling

  The wail of wind seemed to offer up a response, filling the room with its sound. And on top of it Goldman seemed to hear a whispery voice.

  "Peace, Mr. Goldman," the voice said.

  Goldman snorted. "That kind of 'peace' I can do without. The peace of the grave—thank you, but no thank you."

  The voice was soft, placating, almost musical. "Rest," it said, "with no cares."

  Goldman's fingers clenched into a fist. "I'll take the cares. The woes, the anguish, the aggravation—even the pain. But listen to me, Angel—go down to Argentina and look for Hitler. You hear what I'm telling you? Goldman is not ready yet! My child is out there in that room. The son of my son. My life is out there. The thing I love. Will I be able to fondle him and cherish him and love him, lying in a box?"

  The wind answered him—a howling, screeching banshee wail that filled the room with sudden noise.

  Goldman picked up the first thing his fingers could find in the darkness—the bed lamp—ripped it from his socket, flung it with his fast-diminishing strength across the room. It smashed against the door.

  There were hurried footsteps from the other side. The door opened. Mikey stood there, his little face frightened. "What's the matter, Grandpa?" he asked. "Why did you—" He stopped abruptly, staring at the shadow as it seemed to hover and then move to the window, where it disappeared.

  Mikey approached the bed. "What was that, Grandpa?" he asked, pointing to the window.

  Goldman lay back in the bed. "You . . . you saw him, Mikey?"

  The boy nodded. "Just a . . . a shadow."

  Goldman forced a smile. "And I thought you were smart, Mikey. I thought you were Einstein. You don't know who that was? You come here to grandpa."

  Mikey moved over to his grandfather and sat on the spot that the old man patted.

  "That, Mikey Goldman," he announced, "was the Messiah."

  The little boy's eyes grew round and big. "The Messiah? In here?"

  Goldman nodded. "In here."

  "Grandpa . . . what did he want?"

  Goldman reached out and put his hand around the boy's arm. "Strictly to deliver me a message."

  Mikey leaned over closer to the old man's face. "What, Grandpa?" he whispered. "What was the message?"

  "Just to tell you that he'll be arriving very shortly."

  The little boy swallowed. "Here?" he whispered.

  Again Goldman nodded. "His first stop. Right here on Mott Street. He wanted to arrange with me a warehouse for the ice cream and the toys."

  The little boy studied his grandfather's face, searching for a smile or a wink, and wanting to believe. "You kidding me, Grandpa?" he asked.

  Goldman's hand went up the boy's arm to touch his cheek. "Would I kid about something like this?" Then a spasm of coughing gripped him, this time deeper and even more wracking. He reached for a Kleenex to cover his mouth, and when he put it back onto the table, the tissue was dotted with blood specks.

  Mikey felt the same ice-cold apprehension. "Grandpa . . ."

  Goldman patted his cheek again. "Yes, boychik?"

  "If he comes again . . . the Messiah . . . could you give him a message?"

  "Verbatim," the old man said. "Tell me the message."

  Mikey wet his lips and swallowed again. "Tell him not to worry about the ice cream or the toys. Tell him to make you well." He put his head down against the old man's frail shoulders. "That's the most important thing, Grandpa. To make you well."

  With a strength borrowed from somewhere else, a place far away from the room, the old man held the boy tightly, fiercely to him and blinked back tears. "Mikey," he said, "I already told him. I told him that we were a team. Goldman and Goldman. We were inseparable. We were like Solomon and David . . . Damon and Pythias." Goldman closed his eyes and held the boy even tighter. "And we're going to be together for a very long time. Especially now that the Messiah is on his way. Things are going to be first class, Mikey, A-okay—hotsy-totsy." He stroked the curly black hair, then touched it with his lips. "Till . . . till death do us part."

  He felt the boy grow taut underneath his touch. "What, Mikey?" he asked. "Tell me."

  Mikey looked up. "Don't say that, Grandpa," he said urgently, his voice tight. "Don't talk about that. Okay?"

  Goldman cupped the boy's face in his hands. "You'll never hear that word from me again. This is a promise from me to you."

  Mikey rose from the bed. "You want your tea now?"

  "Not quite yet. I'll try for the nap again."

  "You call me if you need me, Grandpa," the boy said as he moved back toward the door.

  Goldman looked across the room from his pillow. "I always need you, Mikey," he said softly. "Always." Then he closed his eyes and wished for sleep, and for the cessation of the pain, and for an end to the coughing that was emptying him of his life.

  Mikey stood on the other side of the door listening to the sporadic coughing from inside the bedroom, and wincing when once—just once—an unbearable pain brought an unbidden cry from the old man's lips. The little boy moved over to the window and looked out into the dark, now snow-filled night, listening to the wind. "Mr. Messiah," he called out. He fiddled with the rusty window latch, then pulled up the window a few inches. "Mr. Messiah," he repeated in a louder voice, "can you hear me?" He looked down to the sidewalk four flights below as the wind swirled over the ledge and into the room. "Could I talk to you a minute?" Mikey asked.

  Again from the bedroom came the sound of spasmodic coughing and another small, still cry of pain.

  The boy stiffened, closed his eyes, clenched his little fists, then moved quickly over to a closet door, opened it, and took out a coat and hat, which he put on as he moved toward the apartment door. He moved faster when he heard yet another cry from the bedroom, and knew, as he walked into the hall, that Dr. Levine and the bottles of medicine and the tomato soup were not enough. The Messiah—find the Messiah. He buttoned his shabby, thin, oversized overcoat as he took the steps two at a time. The warehouses could wait. The ice cream and the toys—for some other time. But his grandfather—the gentle, wise, loving old man whose blood he could see spotting the Kleenex—something had to be done about his grandfather. In some nightmarish fashion, death was taking form in Mikey's consciousness. It had a look; it had a meaning. Death was the enemy. And as Mikey stepped out of the tenement into the swirling snow, the traffic noises, the Christmas Eve cacophony of sound that was Mort Street, he knew urgently and frighteningly that the Messiah must be found before Christmas morning.

  He carried this thought with him like a bundle of fear as he moved down the sidewalk. The street, the people, the noise of traffic and bells, a sound of Christmas music, distorted and loud from a record store—sight and sound enveloped him with the distorted perspective of what a four-foot-eight nine-year-old sees and hears in the midst of a special urgency and a special apprehension.

  At the first corner stood a dejected-looking Santa Claus, ringing a bell in a tired, hopeless trajectory, and wearing a ratty red suit, much too thin for the winter night.

  Mikey held his breath as he moved toward the man, and stood watching him for a moment. "Excuse me," he said, as politely as his excitement could allow. "Excuse me. You aren't the Messiah, are you?"

  Santa Claus looked down at him, the face wind-ravaged and turned into raw hamburger. "Who?" the hoarse voice responded.

  "The Messiah," Mikey persisted. "Are you the Messiah?"

  The watery eyes blinked, and there was a semblance of a smile. "Me?" Santa Claus Said, pointing to his costume. "I'll tell you somethin', little buddy-boy. You're workin' the wrong street. There ain't no Messiah here. Not in this neighborhood. Messiah come here—he'd be mugged inside of ten minutes." He rang the bell furiously, as if adding an exclamation point to a philosophy for the world's losers,

  Mikey stood there, transfixed. "He's been here already," the boy said breathlessly. "I seen him."

  Santa Claus stopped the bell ringing and looked down at Mikey. "You know him t
o see him?" he asked. He shook his head. "You don't even recognize Santa Claus. How the hell would you know the Messiah?" Again he pointed to himself. "That's me, kid. Santa Claus. Don't you know santa Claus?"

  Mikey shook his head and tried to smile.

  Santa Claus shook his head, closed his eyes, rang the bell with one hand, and blew through the holed mitten to warm the other. "Santa Claus," he said hopelessly, "the Messiah. What the hell's the difference?" He changed hands with the bell and again blew into the equally holed mitten of his other hand. "From here to the river," he said resignedly, heaving a sigh, "is one-half saloon and one-half soup kitchen. Winos, grifters, freezing Puerto Ricans, and dum-dum imitation Santa Clauses like me. And you're lookin' for the Messiah here?" He shook his head. "Go uptown, little buddy-boy—or downtown—or go home."

  "I can't," Mikey said urgently. "My grandpa's sick, I have to find the Messiah."

  He took a step away from the red-suited man whose lines in his face turned downward and whose voice, like the bell, sounded flat and dull and off-key. It was then that he heard another voice—loud and strident, coming from across the street. Mikey turned to stare.

  Leaning against a building was a tall, ragged searecrow of a man. He had a stringy beard, his pale, fanatic-eyed face crowned by disheveled hair. He wore what looked like a ragged poncho, and around his neck was a sign which read, "Repent! This is the last day of earth."

  Mikey plucked at Santa Claus's coat. "Mr. Santa Claus . . ."

  Santa Claus stopped the ringing and looked down impatiently.

  "Is that him?" Mikey asked.

  "Is that who?"

  "The Messiah."

  The red-faced man looked across the street and shook his head, smiling grimly. "Little buddy," he said, almost sadly, "if that's the Messiah—then by God, I am Santa Claus."

  Mikey didn't wait to hear anything further. He took off across the street toward the bearded prophet with the wild eyes, sliding and slipping to a hesitant stop a foot away from the apparition.

  "Excuse me. Are you the Messiah?"

  The wild eyes looked down at Mikey. "I am he."

  Mikey exhaled in relief. "Wow," he said, "I'm sure glad I found you, Mr. Messiah. My grandpa's sick."

  The bearded man nodded solemnly. "Of course," he agreed. "Sick and soon to die."

  Mikey's eyes widened. "Wha—what?"

  The man's lips curled and twisted with his own special madness. "Born of iniquity," his voice boomed out. "Steeped in sin and soon to die!"

  Mikey took a step backward, shaking his head back and forth. "Not my grandpa," he said breathlessly.

  The fanatic took a step toward the boy—a shuffling, nightmarish Caliban—and pointed with a gnarled finger. "Tell him to get ready, boy," he shouted. "Tell him to prepare. Tonight Sodom goes. And Gomorrah! The whole world! Struck down by the righteous wrath of—"

  Mikey screamed at him. "Not my grandpa!" He looked into the distorted face that hovered over him. The big, wild eyes. The twisting, drooling lips.

  Then the man grabbed him fiercely. "Wiped out, little boy. Decimated. The wages of evil all paid off!"

  Mikey struggled, twisting left and right, but the claws held him.

  "You're not the Messiah," Mikey said finally.

  But his voice was chopped off by the man's scream. "I am tke Messiah! Your grandpa is doomed. The Jews and the Puerto Ricans are doomed. The blacks and the whites are doomed. Everyone is doomed."

  From somewhere—at first Mikey couldn't tell from where—the bearded man was yanked away from behind, lifted up off his feet, and slammed against the side of the building. It was then

  that Mikey saw the newcomer—a big, heavyset black man in an old Army jacket who stood between the boy and the Mott Street prophet.

  "Take it a block away, mister," the black man said, "and stop scaring kids."

  He yanked the bearded man away from the building, planted a big foot in his backside that sent him half-sliding, half-stumbling down the sidewalk; then he turned to look down at Mikey.

  There was no doubt in the little boy's mind. No doubt at all. It was as if his grandfather's voice was speaking to him over the noise of the street. "A messenger from God, Mikey . . . at any moment he will arrive . . . looming big and black against the sky . . . striking down our enemies . . . the messenger from God . . . looming big and black . . ."

  It had to be him, Mikey thought. It had to be. "Mister," he said, tentative, hopeful, "would you mind telling me your name?"

  The big black man knelt down in front of Mikey and rebuttoned the top buttons of the thin coat which had been yanked open. His voice, Mikey noted, was rich and deep and as gentle as his grandfather's.

  "My name, son? Call me Buckman."

  "Buckman," Mikey repeated; then he smiled. It was a secret he shared with the big man. Their own secret. The one known only to the two of them. "That's the name you use—right?"

  The black man smiled back. "That's the name I use, little one."

  "But . . . but really . . ." Mikey's voice dropped to a whisper. "You're the Messiah, aren't you?"

  He reached up to touch Buckman's hand, and he felt relieved and glad. It couldn't have been the Santa Claus with the sad and twisted face. And certainly the Messiah would never look like the bearded scarecrow with the demented eyes. No—this was the Messiah—this big black man with the white teeth, the shining eyes, the smile so infinitely . . . but infinitely warm.

  Then the words poured out of Mikey. "You see, Mr. Messiah, my grandpa's sick. And I had to tell you not to bring all the toys and the ice cream. At least not now. Grandpa's real sick, and they're talking about taking him away." The words continued to pour out of him. "And if they do, Mr. Messiah, there is this here lady from relief who's going to send me to some kind of foster house. But if you could come over and cure Grandpa, then him and me could be a team like he said we'd be."

  The black man smiled again, but there was just a touch of concern in the smile. "Has Grandpa got a doctor?" Buckman asked.

  "A real good doctor," Mikey responded hurriedly and almost apologetically. "Dr. Levine. But Grandpa needs more than a doctor now. He needs you. He needs the Messiah."

  Buckman looked down at the intense little face. "What makes you think I'm the Messiah, little son?"

  Easy," Mikey answered. "Because you're big and black and you loom." He tightened his grip on Buckman's hand. "Come on, Mr. Messiah. I'll show you where we live."

  Buckman let Mikey pull him down the sidewalk, then back across the street.

  Mikey suddenly laughed and looked up. "But you know where we live already, don't you? You were there."

  Buckman looked puzzled. "I was?"

  Mikey nodded. "Just a little while ago. I seen your shadow. First I was scared. I didn't know what it was. But Grandpa told me it was you."

  Buckman wasn't smiling anymore as he allowed himself to be pulled farther down the sidewalk. Occasionally he would look down at the little boy, and Mikey would return the look. He felt warmed and comfortable. Death was too big to fight alone, and the Messiah was a giant who was wise and protective and beautiful. It was true that he didn't say much as they walked down the street toward the tenement building. He simply held tight to Mikey's hand and occasionally smiled back reassuringly into the intense little face that looked at him with such awe.

  When they reached the building, a police car was parked out in front, its red light revolving on top, and the garbled sound of police messages coming through its radio.

  Mikey was only dimly conscious of the dialogue between two policemen who stood near the foot of the steps. He pulled Buckman up the steps toward the door, willing that their voices would not register, but at the same time nightmarishly aware of a portended doom.

  "How's the old man?" one policeman was asking.

  "Still breathing," was the response, "but that's about it."

  "They want an ambulance?"

  The second policeman shook his head, then looked up toward lighted windows
four stories above. "The doctor's up there now. Says the old man can't be moved."

  Mikey and Buckman were just entering the front door, and the big man noted that Mikey's lips were quivering, and there was a look of utter desperation on his face. He started to pull Buckman up the stairs, the oversized, underweight coat flapping around pipe-stem legs as they churned upward, and the little boy's grip on his hand, Buckman also noted, came with a fierce pressure. There was no time remaining; Mikey was quite aware of this. The miracle must come now. He had reached the Messiah during the last remaining minute of the eleventh hour.

  Inside the Goldman apartment, Dr. Levine was just coming out of the bedroom when the front door opened and Mikey entered, Buckman towering over him. Mikey left the black man and headed past Levine toward the bedroom.

  Levine held out his hand to stop him. "Your grandpa's asleep, Mikey."

  "Can't I see him?"

  "After a little while," the doctor said. "We'll see. But for now—he needs rest." Then, as if reminded that another man was in the room, he looked questioningly toward Buckman.

  Mikey caught the look and smiled. "This is the Messiah, Dr. Levine." He said it with hope and relief. He said it as if trying to comfort poor Dr. Levine, who had obviously done his best, but, like everyone else, needed miracles to aid him.

  Dr. Levine nodded. The Messiah. That's what the little boy had said. The Messiah. And this was just what he needed to wind up the evening. He had had two emergency calls involving a butchered-up abortion and a two-week-old gangrenous knife wound. Then there had been Mr. Goldman, whose life was dangling on a frayed thread. And now, added to the evening's festivities, was a black man who had just jetted in from the heavens wearing the mantle of God and a surplus Army jacket. Beautiful, Dr. Levine thought. Delicious. There was very little else in the way of Christmas Eve insanity to draw on unless God Himself could come in carrying the Torah and some mistletoe. Levine heaved a huge sigh. "The Messiah." Then he turned back to the boy, shaking his head. "You better put your pajamas on now, Mikey, and get ready for bed."