by Gene Wolfe
“I’m sure you are, Mr. Free. And believe me, all of us appreciate it more than you know.”
The old man pulled a rusty key from his pocket and opened a door. Warm, stale air, musty with time and decay, poured out. He started down creaking wooden steps into the dark.
“Aren’t you going to turn on the lights?” Barnes called after him.
“Ain’t none.” Free’s voice seemed to float like a ghost in the blackness. “Never has been. Come on down, Mr. Barnes. Just keep a hold of that railin’.”
Hesitantly, Barnes came.
“Some steps’s broken. Got to be careful.” There was a rasping noise and the flare of a match. “She’s a deep one, I guess you can see. Just keep on comin’.”
The stair had been repaired often and badly. Or perhaps it had never been repaired at all, only built of such odd scraps as had come into the builder’s hands. Some treads were no more than two or three unplaned sticks laid side by side; some showed paint at their edges, fragments of letters and pictures.
The match flickered and went out.
“Naught to worry about, Mr. Barnes. I never strung none because I didn’t want no one coming down here, but I been up and down them steps a hundred times. Good thing, too—they’ll be shuttin’ off the electric any minute. S’pose they caught us down here? You say that witch asked you to talk for her?”
A second match flared. For a moment, Free’s big, hunched body was interposed between Barnes and the light, then the golden radiance of a candle appeared.
Barnes managed to say, “She was up on the roof with you.”
“I know that. She got up on that little wall that goes around it. It was a damn fool thing to do.”
“She said you—ah—confided certain important facts.” Barnes’s foot touched the grimy surface of the floor, and he heaved a sigh of relief.
“She did, eh? I hadn’t reckoned she’d pass that on.”
“Madame Serpentina and I are friends.” Barnes cleared his throat. “You might say we’ve a relationship, if you know what I mean. I’m sure she didn’t tell me anything you asked her to hold confidential.”
“I know, but I ain’t sure you do. There wasn’t anything like that.”
In the flickering light, the ancient furnace seemed a monster, lifting tentacles as thick as a man’s body to the overhanging dark. The monster was dead, its rotting flesh weeping asbestos, corroding the old-fashioned cabinet that spun wiring in its shadow.
“I didn’t mean anything improper—”
“Neither’d I. Just thought you thought maybe I said somethin’ I didn’t want spread around. I didn’t. I’ll be on my way to meet with my daughter ’fore sundown, I reckon, so what do I care? You like women, don’t you, Mr. Barnes?”
“Like them?” Taken off guard, Barnes considered for a moment. “Not really. I want them, and since I can’t have them, usually, I don’t like them. But I want them, I suppose you could say that. I admire Madame Serpentina.”
“Do you now?” Free said. A length of hose ran from a small propane tank into the mouth of the monster. Stiffly, he bent and reached inside.
“She has pride, intelligence, and vivacity. Her profile is wonderful, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen a woman with finer eyes.”
Free looked over his shoulder. “Interestin’ you should say that. Because, Mr. Barnes, I been just now wonderin’ about yours. The black part in a man’s eye usually gets big in the dark, just like a cat’s. When I lit this here candle, I noticed only one of yours acted so. Your one there looks about the way it always did, I believe.”
“It’s glass,” Barnes admitted. “You don’t think it looks too unnatural, Mr. Free?”
“Never noticed it till now.”
“I’m glad of that. Sometimes I think I see people looking at it when I’m making a call. Appearance is very important in sales, and someday, when money’s easier, I’ll buy a better one. The best are made in Germany, but they cost a bundle.”
“It looks fine,” the old man told him. “It’s the most natural thing about you.”
“It would be better if the others, especially Madame Serpentina—”
“You don’t have to worry about me. I’ll be gone anyway, just like I told you. When I got you people in here, I kind of hoped they’d leave the old place stand because folks was still livin’ here. It ain’t goin’ to work, though, and I know it. I look at my walls, and I can see that big, black ball comin’ through ’em.”
“I’ll do what I can, Mr. Free,” Barnes said. “I know the others will too.”
“I believe that, Mr. Barnes.”
“I know that none of you—except for Madame Serpentina—think a hell of a lot of me. Just a bunch of talk, a hand-pumper and a back-slapper. But I don’t walk away from my friends, Mr. Free. Not unless I’m forced to.”
Free nodded. “You’re a bigger man on the inside than on the outside, Mr. Barnes. I knew it when I seen you hadn’t got nothing for yourself last night ’fore you brought our grub to us. There’s a few like you.”
Barnes smiled and squatted beside the old man. “I’m glad you feel that way, Mr. Free, because it’s going to make it quite a bit easier to talk to you. When you were up there with Madame Serpentina, you told her—this is what she says—about something valuable you hid away and more or less lost some years ago.”
Free nodded. “Quite a few years. I’m surprised, though, she told you. I guess I said that.” He had picked up a screwdriver, and his hands were busy. He did not look at Barnes.
“Believe me, I would never betray Madame Serpentina’s confidence, and she knows it. She’s asked me to help her.”
“Well, now.”
“Just as you’ve asked me to help you, Mr. Free. And I’m going to try to do my best for both of you.”
“Good for you,” Free muttered. “Now you have a look at that bottle gas. See the valve? Shut her off.”
Barnes did as he was told. “Madame Serpentina’s a very intelligent woman, but she has a certain view of life. A view of the world. She sees things in, um, spiritual terms.”
Free straightened up, the hose end, a hose clamp, and the screwdriver all in one big hand, like a bouquet of soiled flowers. “That’s got her loose. Smells funny, don’t it?”
“Speaking man-to-man,” Barnes continued dauntlessly, “what she told me was nonsense. What I mean to say is, it was nonsense to me, right? I don’t look at things the way she does, but I suppose if you look at them that way, she might be right. Anyway, what she indicated to me was that you told her you once had a—ah—crown, or something of that sort, and you had hidden it. Last night, she said, you told her where, more or less, and that it would be all right with you if she got it. When you—ah—have met your daughter and have no further use for it.”
Free chuckled. “A crown? That’s what she said?”
“Something like that. She used a lot of words I don’t know, but that’s what it seemed to boil down to. Regalia? I always thought that meant a yacht race, but I believe it was one thing she spoke of.”
“And she said I told her where ’twas? Mr. Barnes, don’t you think if I had a crown, and knew where it was, I’d go get it?”
“Not where it was, exactly.” Barnes was stubborn. “Only that you had hidden it away a long time ago.”
The old man chuckled again. “I gave her more than that, Mr. Barnes. I doubt she told you everything.”
Barnes smiled. “Then there is a crown. That’s wonderful, Mr. Free.”
“Not a crown.” Free’s voice grew grave. “I never said it was a crown.”
“I didn’t think so. It doesn’t seem probable, after all.”
“Trouble is, I want to tell you what it was, Mr. Barnes. Only I can’t.”
“I would respect your confidence, Mr. Free. Trust me.”
“’Taint that.” The old man shuffled awkwardly, like a boy. “It’s a treasure. That’s all I can say. A treasure. Something I brought from the High Place, and there’s no words I could us
e to tell you what it was and make you believe it now.” He held up his hands as if depicting a fish or a putt. “It ain’t too big. Not much wider than that.”
“But it would be worth a great deal,” Barnes persisted, “if we found it?”
“Oh, you could sell it for a sight of money, I s‘pose. ’Cept you never would. Once you had it, you couldn’t part with it. Not for money. Maybe not for anything. I never meant to, you see, Mr. Barnes. I’d used it, and I’d learned a whole lot. I only wanted to put it to one side for a while and stay where I was at. Then one thing and t‘other happened. I thought about it sometimes, but the time never seemed right to go. There was always corn to plant, or this or that. Anyway, I got older—which we all do, Mr. Barnes, treasure or none. And I knew it would be harder. I kept thinkin’ one day I’d feel better, and some days I did, only it never lasted. Then it was too late for me. I started askin’ myself what I’d do with it now, and I’ll tell you the truth, there wasn’t much of a answer.”
“I see.”
“No you don’t, Mr. Barnes. You don’t see a thing.” The old man shambled off in the direction of the water heater.
“I only meant that I can sympathize. My grandfather had a farm and lost it. I still remember how depressed he was. I understand how you feel.”
The candle went out.
“You’re wrong, Barnes.” The voice was Free’s and yet not Free’s, as though a new and different Free had come suddenly with the dark.
Barnes gasped, “Where are you, Mr. Free?” and patted his pockets helplessly. “I’ve been trying to quit smoking, and now the candle’s—”
“I know that, Barnes. Don’t be any bigger fool than you can help. A moment ago you said people don’t respect you. I said I did, and I do. But you’re involved in something you don’t understand. That’s the simple truth.”
“Don’t you have—”
“You’re trying to ask me where I put my gizmo, and what it is. A way to make me tell you what I hardly know myself about something you don’t understand. Well, I put it where I told you. In a wall. I could have put it someplace else, but it was a wall I chose.”
Barnes took a step. He hoped it was toward the stair, though he felt a chasm had opened before him.
“And I put a sign on it. I’m not sure you’ll ever see that sign, Barnes, but if you do I think you’ll know.”
The Defenders
Sergeant Proudy mounted the steps of 808 South Thirtyeighth and knocked at the door. It was a fine old door, high, wide, and solid. The Proudys lived in an apartment with a fireplace; Sergeant Proudy wished briefly that he might have that door. It would burn for weeks.
There was no sound from inside. Proudy pushed up the tail of his overcoat, took a blackjack from his hip pocket, and used it to knock again.
After several more knocks, Barnes opened the door. He was half a head shorter than the policeman, who wedged one of his large, black shoes between the door and the jamb.
“You still here, bud?” Sergeant Proudy grunted. “Where’s the old man?”
Barnes hesitated. “I’m afraid Mr. Free’s presently engaged, officer.”
Proudy pushed open the door. “I have to see him. I’ve got a paper here for B. Free. Where is he?”
Barnes backed away. “I think he’s—ah—upstairs. It would probably be better if I went up and asked him to come down and see you.”
“I’ll go up with you,” Proudy said firmly. He followed Barnes up the steep, narrow stair. “You’re still living here?”
“Yes, I am,” Barnes told him. The house was icy cold, but a radio banged and grumbled upstairs.
“You’re going to have to get out. You and the old man and everybody else, if there’s anybody else left.”
Barnes halted, his hands clutching at the banister. “Not now, officer. There are five of us.”
“As of noon of this date.”
Barnes shook his head. “That’s impossible. I’ve only made a couple of calls today—a few neighborhood places. I wanted to see Mr. Free myself, so I couldn’t go very far. I’d make a call or two over in the next street, you follow me? And then I’d come back and check. The first time he was still asleep, and then he was out having breakfast. Probably I waited too long because I got a good order at the second place, and I had to write it up and promise the guy it would be here in ten days or less. You know how it is?”
“You get on upstairs, and while you’re doing it, I’ll make this completely clear. What I got here’s a court order.” Sergeant Proudy had a large nose. He rubbed it. “It says you got to be out at noon because they got to wreck this house. Come noon, we carry you out, and we carry your stuff out, and we dump everything in the street. If you don’t want that, move before then.”
“I really don’t think that’s reasonable, officer,” Barnes said. “Or right, either.” The sergeant was crowding him, jabbing him just above the belt with the end of the blackjack to force him up the stairs. “People, old people like Mr. Free particularly, should have some rights.”
“The law says he’s got the right to take what the state says his house is worth. Ain’t that right? Now go get him.”
“In here, I think.” Barnes trotted past Stubb’s door and knocked at Candy’s.
Bedsprings creaked. The door swung back, the ugly sounds of the radio grew louder, and the fat girl appeared in the doorway. She was heavily powdered and rouged, but she wore the pink robe.
Barnes could see a little of the unmade bed beyond her; it was empty, but something flat and furry and larger than any cat lay there. “I don’t like to bother you,” he said stiffly. “But do you know where Mr. Free is?”
“Not any more. I was taking a nap.” The fat girl yawned as though to prove it, then glanced at Sergeant Proudy. “I’m broke, remember? You were here yesterday.”
Barnes cleared his throat. “He says they’re going to make everyone leave at noon.”
“Not me. I won’t be up then.” The slam of the fat girl’s door was followed by the snick of a night bolt.
“Ozzie, the wrecking. It will be today?”
Across the stairwell, Sergeant Proudy saw a slender, darkhaired woman in a black dress.
“At noon,” Barnes said. “We have to be out by noon.” There was an unspoken appeal in his voice.
“I will try,” the dark woman said. “It will depend, perhaps. Where is Stubb?”
Sergeant Proudy broke in. “The hell with that. I got to serve this paper. Where’s Free?”
“Stubb couldn’t do anything.”
“One never knows, my Ozzie. He might help you.”
“Help me do what?”
“You are intelligent and resourceful. What you will think of to do.” The dark woman opened the door behind her and slipped through it.
* * *
Stubb was in the Sandwich Shop, with the telephone, an ashtray, and a half-empty coffee cup before him. He sat listening intently to the telephone while drawing on a Camel, his head cocked. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, sure. Who would know?”
A heavy, middle-aged woman stood behind the counter staring at him.
He covered the mouthpiece with one hand. “What’s eating you?”
The woman looked down the counter at the young man who had waited on Stubb the night before. “Murray, you gave him more credit?”
“He paid up, Mom.”
“Okay, switch me,” Stubb said. “Let me talk to him.”
“So help me God as I live and breathe, Mom, he paid up. He paid for that coffee there, too.”
“Hello, Charlie, this is Jim Stubb. You remember me? I’m a friend of Tinker’s … . Charlie, I need a little favor, just a two-bit thing. Tinker’d do it for me in a minute, but he’s down in Florida reeling ‘em in, and I don’t want to bother him … . Yeah, I do too, haven’t done any fishing in a year. Too busy, you know how it is … . Charlie, what it is, is this place over on the south side where they’re putting the new freeway through. It’s scheduled for demo, but the old guy t
hat owns it is a friend of mine. He hasn’t had time yet to get his stuff out. I was wondering if you couldn’t—Hell, Charlie, there’s got to be something else they could do for a couple of months anyway. They’ve been planning the God-damned freeway for eight years … . Sure, I understand. What’s the number? I’ll try him.”
“You want more coffee?”
“Thanks, Murray.”
“Do me a favor, huh?”
Stubb had hung up the telephone. He picked up the handset again and began to dial. “What’re you whispering for, Murray?”
“So I’m whispering. Order a doughnut.”
“Commissioner Carson’s office, please.”
“You’re asking them for a favor, I’m asking you for one. Order a doughnut. I bet you didn’t eat breakfast. What can it hurt?”
“My name’s Jim Stubb, and I’m active on the south side. I’m a very good friend of Tinker Bell’s. Will you tell Commissioner Carson I’d like to talk to him? What the hell, Murray, you gone crazy?”
“A little favor I’m asking. You ask me for favors all the time.”
“Hello, Commissioner? … I believe we did meet last summer at the picnic … . No, no, I was just in the audience, you probably wouldn’t remember me, but I heard your speech. We shook hands afterward … . Yeah, you gave ’em hell, everybody loved it. That’s why I’m calling, Commissioner. You know how it is, you have the party’s interests at heart, maybe you stick your nose in sometimes where it doesn’t belong. But you say to yourself, the party’s been good to me, maybe I should stick my neck out and pay back. The thing is, Commissioner, they’re going to knock down this old house here on the south side. It’s full of people who’ve got nowhere else to live and the whole neighborhood’s pretty steamed … . Sure, the snow and all … . It’s going to hurt us with these people, and the way I figure it, just a little cooling down period, just a few weeks maybe, could make all the difference … . No, white. Not Polish or anything … .Okay, Commissioner, I’m not going to argue, there isn’t a white vote. But whites vote … . Okay, I’ll call him. Maybe you could call him too?”
Stubb hung up and stared into space for a moment. Into nothingness. Then he took a torn dollar bill from his pocket and laid it on the counter. “Hey, Murray, give me some more coffee and a couple doughnuts, huh? Not them, the big greasy kind.”