“Dion,” he said. “What are you doing at home? Are you sick?”
“No” I said. “I just overslept. I had some trouble getting to sleep last night, and when I finally did, I guess I just overslept.”
Dad looked worried. I’d been getting myself off in the mornings since I was a little kid, and I was never late. Of course, I didn’t always go to school because of the operations; but if I was going at all, I got there on time. Dad put some coffee on to perk and fixed himself some cereal before he said anything more, but after he sat down at the table he said, “Well, then, why don’t you take advantage of the opportunity and get a rest? You look tired. You know I’ve told you I think you’re on much too strenuous a schedule. I have some home lessons this morning so the place should be fairly quiet for a while. Why don’t you go back to bed and really catch up on your sleep?”
I shrugged. “I might. I don’t much like to go into class late.” So I stayed home that day and the next, not doing much except thinking. Dad asked questions once or twice, but he didn’t pressure me to get back to school.
The second day I went back to Alcott-Simpson’s, feeling very sure I’d find everything just the way it had always been. At that particular point I’d almost convinced myself that I’d had some kind of complicated nightmare, and that everything would be back to normal. But instead I found the store closed and locked and huge sheets of paper pasted over all the windows. I came home in a kind of panic.
Back at our house I picked up the morning paper and it was full of stuff about the sudden, startling failure of the fabulous Alcott-Simpson department store. The articles went on and on about the history of Alcott-Simpson’s—how it had for so many years been almost a symbol of a way of life—and how it had stood for a kind of service and a standard of quality that were fast becoming unknown—and that its passing was a great loss to the discerning and particular shopper. There was another article about why the store had closed.
The story started CHANGING TIMES FORCE END OF GREAT STORE. It was full of quotes from the managers. They explained the whole thing by saying that Alcott-Simpson’s was built on a lavish scale at a time when such things were more widely appreciated, and that in these modern times it was too difficult to maintain. This fact, plus the growing competition from suburban shopping centers, had finally become decisive. The article went on like that, quoting more or less the same thing said in slightly different ways by different owners and managers. I read it over three times. Someone did mention that there had also been an increase in the usual problems with thieves and vandals, but that was the closest any of them came to saying anything much at all.
It was the end of the week when I decided to go back to Madame Stregovitch’s house. When I got there it looked at first as if there was no one at home. I knocked on the door several times without getting an answer, and when I peeked in through the little oval window it looked very dark and empty. Finally, just as I was about to give up and go away, I heard something moving and a light came on.
I had a definite shock when Madame opened the door. For a minute I almost didn’t recognize her. She was wearing a long robe-like thing, and her black and silver hair, that I’d always seen piled up on top of her head, was hanging down her back. She looked tired, and there were dark shadows around her eyes.
“Hey, are you sick again or something?” I said. “I’m sorry I bothered you.”
“No, no. Come in. I’m very glad you came,” Madame said, and as soon as she began to talk, she seemed more like herself. “If you had not come soon I would have sent for you. I wanted to see you before I left.”
“Before you left?” I said. “Are you going away?”
“Yes,” she said. “Very soon.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ll miss you. I guess you lost your job when the store closed. Have you found another job somewhere else?”
Madame nodded. “Yes. I have found other work to do. But I wanted very much to see you before I left. I wished to tell you good-by—and also, there are some explanations I feel I must make.”
When she said that about explanations, I felt a kind of weight lift in my mind. “That’s what I need,” I said, “explanations! You know, the last few days have been pretty bad.” I gave a little laugh so neither of us would take it too seriously, but I think I really meant it. “Sometimes I’ve been pretty sure I must be cracking up.”
Madame frowned. You must not think that. Hasn’t it occurred to you that you are not alone in your affliction? Doesn’t it seem strange to you that so many others at Alcott-Simpson’s have at the same time become also insane?”
“Look,” I said, “I don’t know what happened to other people at Alcott-Simpson’s. Sure, they had to shut it down, but you saw what the papers said about the reasons. I don’t know what the real reasons were.”
“The real reasons,” Madame said slowly. “Reality. It is a strange word. Everyone supposes that they know its meaning, but in truth it has meant different things to every age and to every individual. What has been real today may, in the future, become only a dream, and things beyond belief may become tomorrow’s realities.”
I guess it was plain that I wasn’t getting any less confused, because all at once Madame stopped and held up her hand. “Yes, yes, you must have a more direct answer. You will not understand fully, but I feel that I owe you at least such explanation as I can give.”
“You owe me?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said, “I owe you an explanation because I am to some extent responsible for your confusion.” Madame’s lips twitched with a flicker of her usual biting humor. “You see, I do not claim full responsibility, because I feel certain something of the sort would have had to happen, sooner or later. Those who accept without question so incredible a world as Alcott-Simpson’s, must not expect to ignore forever other worlds no more incredible. But enough of that—as I said, you cannot hope to understand fully, but I can perhaps help you to see that it is not your sanity that has been at fault.”
Madame paused as if she were collecting her thoughts, and then she suddenly pointed to the picture on the mantle, the one with the strange magnetic eyes. “You noticed, the other day, the picture of my mother?” I nodded. “Many years ago my mother was known in many countries as a person of unusual powers, psychic powers. When I was a young child, the country in which we were living fell under the control of evil leaders, and because my mother spoke freely of the events she was able to foresee—of the suffering these leaders would cause and the terrible fate that would finally be theirs—she was taken away. I managed to escape, and I lived in hiding for many years in several countries. Then, when I was almost a woman, I began to discover that I had to some extent inherited the gifts that had been my mother’s. But like many young ones, I chose another way. I did not want the life, and the death, that had been my mother’s. I was at an age when other forces, normal forces, are very strong, so I ran away. I finally arrived in this country, and I worked and lived in many ways and in many places. At last I came to Alcott-Simpson’s, and there, as you know, I have been for many years.”
I leaned forward and opened my mouth, but Madame held up her hand and went on. “Why did I stay in such a place?” I gulped because it was exactly what I was going to ask. “I stayed because, after all those years, I was still running away and I felt safer there. Better than in most places, I was able there to shut out knowledge that I did not want, contacts that I wished not to make. Alcott-Simpson’s shuts out many things.”
I nodded. “I’ve always had a feeling like that about it. Like it was a separate world.”
“Exactly. And it was so for me until not long ago. Then one day I happened to see an article about some gifts in that special world—some very special and unusual gifts. And on the next page I read about what seemed, indeed, to be a very different world. It was a story about children in a country where for some years now there has been much famine.”
All of a sudden I knew what she was talking about. “I re
member,” I said. “You gave me part of that magazine for my scrapbook. And I remember something strange about it. It was some eyes. Some eyes that came right through when you held it up to the light. Did you notice that?”
Madame’s eyes whipped up at me so sharply that I jumped as if I’d been hit. “Indeed I did notice,” she said. “Those eyes, those strangely misplaced eyes, were what gave me the inspiration to do what I did. For many years I had tried to forget things I was afraid to know, but such knowledge is not easily forgotten. Among the things I remembered was the means used to send a particular invitation to a very special kind of visitor. Only one thing was lacking. In order for me to accomplish what I had decided to do, I needed the unknowing cooperation of an adolescent—the mind of a sleeping or unconscious child. Then one day as I walked through Alcott-Simpson’s, there on a bench in an alcove was the missing ingredient.”
“M-m-me?” I stammered in absolute amazement.
Madame nodded. “I am afraid that you are right. It was you. But you must believe that I did not anticipate that your involvement would be any more than the momentary use I put you to. I did not foresee the danger to which you would be exposed. I still do not understand why it happened.”
“I think I know,” I said. “It was only because of—of Sara.” It hurt to say her name, and even to think about her brought a dull undimming pain. “She told me why she came—and why she shouldn’t have. She said the Others were all younger. I guess they were happy enough with all the things to play with, but Sara was too old for just that.”
I sat for a while staring at my hands. “And now—are they gone?” I asked. “Are they all gone?”
Madame nodded. “On that last day I, too, hid myself and stayed after closing in the store. I knew I dared wait no longer. I planned to try to send them back by other means; but as I had feared, it was not possible. Then once again, my missing ingredient appeared, just when he was needed—entirely against orders, but I must admit, most opportunely.” Madame smiled, and I could tell she was trying to sound cheerful to make me feel better.
I tried. “That’s me,” I said, “always handy.” But it didn’t come off. I couldn’t hide how I really felt.
“I’m sorry,” Madame said, and I’d never heard her sound so gentle. “You must think of it as a sad but beautiful mystery. It is, indeed, a mystery—so complete a materialization. Such a thing is very rare. But then her reason was very strong—the strongest reason of all, for love in itself is the greatest of mysteries.”
That was all. We sat there a little longer without saying anything, and then I got up to go. At the door Madame said, “Dion, I must tell you again that I am sorry. Very sorry for what I have done to you, and even a little sorry for the mischief I have done to Alcott-Simpson’s.”
It seemed to me that that was a strange way to put it. As far as I could see, “mischief” didn’t begin to cover it. “Mischief?” I said.
Madame shrugged, and the corner of her mouth twitched in something like a smile. “Call it what you will. I meant it only as mischief. Had I meant something more, I could have opened the doors to very different visitors. I might have lowered a drawbridge to powerful and evil invaders. But instead, one could say, perhaps, that I only unlatched the back gate for the neighbor’s children.”
That was the way it ended.
I thought it through to the very end, and then I wrote the last verse. It goes like this:
The police are baffled, the management’s frantic,
The watchmen will not stay.
All the scientific investigators,
Gave up and went away,
And they all pretend that they can’t be certain,
For nobody wants to say
That the ghosts,
Little ghosts
Who lost their childhood,
Have been sent to Alcott’s to play.
Chapter 15
IT HAS BEEN about six months now since Alcott-Simpson’s closed and Madame Stregovitch went away. Looking at just the outside of things, you might say that nothing has changed very much; but from another point of view everything is entirely different.
We still live in the same old place, and I still go to Randolph High School. The main difference at Randolph is A-Group. That’s what we call the folk-rock band that Jerry and Brett and I have formed with another guy named Johnson on the drums. We’ve really been doing all right. We’ve played for a lot of school dances, and we’ve even had a few outside jobs for money. I’ve been writing music again lately, and a lot of my stuff we do in the group. But an even more startling development is that Brett and I do most of the singing. If anyone had told me a year ago that I’d be singing in front of several hundred people—particularly several hundred high school kids—I’d have told them they were crazy. But it wasn’t so hard after the first few times. I guess I do all right.
I don’t mean by that that I’ve turned into any big personality sensation or anything like that. As a matter of fact, except for the guys in the band, I still don’t have any gang that I really belong to. But there are two or three bunches of kids that I see a little of now and then. The funny thing is I’ve found out that that’s the way I like it. I have some friends here and there, and I don’t have to get hung up on anybody else’s action. I don’t know how the whole thing happened, except that when I forgot to keep up the big social effort I’d been making ever since I came to Randolph, I just slid back into my own style; and the surprising part was that it was all right. It’s not flashy, but it’s comfortable and it comes out of what I am, instead of something I have to keep spreading around on top.
At home things look almost the same on the outside, too. My Dad still drifts along with pretty much the same bunch of students, not to mention the same little army of friends and acquaintances. He did have a spell of trying to make some changes a few months back, but nothing much came of it. It was pretty much to be expected—at his age and right here in the same old environment. But when I get fed up, and I still do now and then, I have to remember that I have only myself to blame. I had a chance to change things, and I didn’t take it.
I had the chance a few months ago right after Alcott-Simpson’s closed down. It happened at dinner one night towards the end of that week when I stayed home from school and just sat around thinking and worrying. I remember that Dad had made my favorite kind of stew, and while we were eating all of a sudden he said, “Di, I’ve been thinking about something, and I believe I’ve come to a decision. I was talking to John again yesterday and apparently that job in the music department at Wentworth still hasn’t been filled. How would it be if I called up to see if I could arrange an appointment? Then you and I could get all slicked up and make a trip out there tomorrow to see if we can convince Mr. Marple that we would be worthy members of the Wentworth family.”
Dad’s friend John, who teaches at Wentworth, is always talking about this Marple guy. He is the principal at Wentworth, but he likes to call himself the “Headmaster,” and he is always talking about the “Wentworth Family.” John says Marple has a Father-Figure complex with a capital F; and if he’s heard of academic freedom, he thinks it means letting his staff go home at night instead of locking them in the storeroom with the other school property. He’s very big on things like “professional appearance” and being seen at the right places and not at any of the wrong ones.
All of a sudden I got a mental picture of scruffy old Dad with his hair slicked back, trying to put on some kind of an act for this Marple character. I didn’t say anything for quite a while, and at last Dad said, “Di?”
“Well, go ahead if you want to,” I said, “but as far as I’m concerned I’d rather stay right here. Seems to me that for someone who’s used to city life, the suburbs would be a real drag.”
I got up then and put my dishes in the sink, and as I left the kitchen I got a glimpse of Dad’s face. If you could have framed his expression, you would have had to label it, “The Last Minute Reprieve.”
T
o tell the truth, what I did then—I mean turning down a chance to move—wasn’t just pure heart on my part. Happening right at that particular moment, my mind was so crowded and confused that I didn’t want to face any other big new change right then. But later on, when I’d had time to consider it, I began to get some ideas about what Dad’s offer really represented, I mean for a guy like him. He might as well have volunteered for a stretch in Sing Sing. And then, after a while, when things began to change a little at Randolph and we got A-Group under way, I began to lose interest in changing schools anyway.
Like I say, I still get fed up at times, but in the last few months the trouble between my dad and me has begun to ease up a little. I’ve been doing some reading and thinking about the subject of rebellion, and it seems to me that the whole thing was probably inevitable. It seems to me that rebellion is usually inevitable, and that it only gets useless when you forget that it’s just a doorway and not a destination. Because if you settle down in a doorway, your future is going to be pretty narrow.
And speaking of destinations—mine is a lot more up in the air than it used to be. I have at least half a dozen plans that I’m fooling around with. I can’t seem to make up my mind. It’s kind of funny actually, when I used to be so sure of what I wanted—all those years when I was planning to be an executive at Alcott-Simpson’s someday. And now I have to start planning all over again. But I don’t mind. There are a lot of things I’m interested in, and planning is still something that I like to do.
Just a few days ago they started tearing Alcott-Simpson’s down. I guess they’re going to build a huge new office building on the spot. I went by one day to watch, but I didn’t stay long. I didn’t like the way it made me feel. I don’t mind thinking about the things that happened at the store last spring, but I didn’t like thinking about it there, with the wrecking ball crashing into the walls. Last night, for instance, when I got the idea for the song, I started thinking about all of it, and I thought it through from beginning to end; and it didn’t bother me at all. For one thing, I’ve quit worrying about what I believe.
Eyes in the Fishbowl Page 11