by John Varley
"I won't."
"Then I'll cut you down where you stand. Defend yourself, sir!"
Valentine raised his sword and began walking slowly toward his son. The blade hissed through the air, once, twice. Then a quiet, mild voice came from the wings.
"All right, that's enough of that, Mr. Valentine. Not one more step."
Sparky and Valentine both jerked in surprise, and turned to see a tall, lanky form walk slowly from behind the curtain. He wore a beige, wide-brimmed felt Stetson, a homespun blue shirt and leather vest, and baggy gray pants. His boots were dusty and broken in. Strapped low around his waist was a gunbelt and holsters, and in them could be seen the butts of two revolvers.
"Who the hell are you?" Valentine thundered.
"Elwood, stay out of this," Sparky said.
"My name is Tom Destry, Mr. Valentine. I'm a friend of—"
"You look just like Jimmy Stewart."
"I've been told that. Don't know the gentleman. Sparky and I go way back, though. Clear back to his first day at the studio."
"My son's name is Kenneth."
Elwood shook his head. "Not right now, it isn't. You see, Mr. Valentine, right about then, that first day when you left him alone all day while you were off on your audition, or whatever it was, your boy needed a friend. And that's what I've been to him, as well as I can be."
"Elwood, please..."
"Sparky, somebody has to do this."
They made a rough triangle, the three of them. Sparky mostly looking down at the floor, darting quick glances from one man to the other. Elwood stood at his ease, his hands dangling at his sides. Valentine could not stand still. He paced, two steps to the right, three steps back, in no pattern. His eyes blazed, and they never wavered from Elwood.
"Who is this man, Kenneth?" he asked, his voice dangerously low. "Some extra you've befriended?"
"This is Elwood P. Dowd, Father. He's my friend."
"Elwood P.—" Valentine cut a quick glance at his son, then looked back at Elwood, threw his head back, and roared with laughter.
"Well, Mr. Dowd, it's a pleasure, sir. I feel like I've known you all my life. And Kenneth, pray tell, where is your other... why, there he is now!" Valentine strode lightly toward Elwood, who stood his ground, and made an elaborate show of throwing his arm over an invisible companion's shoulders. "Welcome, welcome, sir! It's been such a long time. Are you well? Are you happy? I must say your fur is looking exceptionally fine today. Where do you have it done? You don't say! What's that... well, I'm sorry, Harvey, I don't have any carrots with me. Didn't know you were coming, and all that. But how about a martini? That's your drink, isn't it? A dry martini..."
He dropped his arm, looked sadly at his son, and shook his head.
"Your friend is a nut, Kenneth. I see it now. Tom Destry, of all people. He dresses up like a Tom Mix cowboy, and strides forth to protect you from your own father. That is what you're here for, isn't it, Mister... Dowd? Destry? Are you sure who you are?"
"The drink is milk, sir, and the name is still Destry."
"Or Stewart. Tell me, Jimmy, if you're here as a tough guy of some sort, why not that marshal, Guthrie McCabe, in Two Rode Together? Or that outlaw in Bandolero!—what was his name... Mace Bishop. Or even that lawyer fella, Ransom Stoddard, the one who shot Liberty Valance. What's the matter, tenderfoot? Law books no damn good? Is that why you're packing?"
Elwood/Tom seemed bemused by the speech. He looked at Sparky.
"You told me he had a photographic memory for plots and cast lists," he said. "I don't know if I'da remembered all of those m'self."
"Dramatis personae," Valentine said. "That's the term we actors use."
"Meaning I'm not one," Destry said. "No, I don't reckon I am, sir, not of your caliber, certainly. You can mock me all you want, Mr. Valentine. I can take it. It's the boy over there who can't take it anymore. I know everything about you there is to know, sir. Every small-minded deed, every slight you've ever given him. Every blow you've ever landed."
"I'm his teacher," Valentine growled.
"And a good one, too, so far as that goes. If all a teacher's for is to develop a skill, why, you're a darn good one. But I happen to think being a teacher, and a father, means a lot more than that, Mr. Valentine. And by that standard, you've completely failed him. He lives in fear of you. He's a man's size, but he's still a boy when he faces you. You won't let him go, and he can't break away from you."
Valentine looked astonished.
"And why would he want to? He and I are joined at the hip, sir. It has always been that way, and it will always remain so. We are united by our art, something a pathetic gesticulator like yourself could never understand, and by something a great deal deeper than that. Kenneth, tell him." He turned to his son. "I have been strict with you, I've never denied it. It takes strictness, discipline, and an artist suffers it willingly. But everything I have ever done has been done from love. Tell him, son."
Sparky, his clothing tattered and soaked in blood, swayed and thought once more that he would pass out. He looked helplessly from his father to Elwood, and back again.
For the first time a furrow of doubt creased John Valentine's brow as he saw his son's battered condition. He held out his hand, started to say something, then turned away from them both. When he faced them again, there were tears in his eyes. He grimaced, rubbed his face.
"Listen to me," he said, sadly. "And look at you. I've done it again, haven't I?"
"Father..."
"No, son, don't say anything. I stand revealed, once more, as a coward and a poltroon. Look what I've done to you."
"Father, I know you never mean—"
"Sparky!" Elwood warned.
"You stay out of this!" Valentine bellowed. "Kenneth, do you understand that I love you, more than life itself?"
"Yes, Father."
"Then all I can do is apologize again. I have overplayed my role, and there is no forgiveness for that, but I hope I still have your love."
"You do, Father."
Valentine held out his hand toward his son.
"Then let's go get you to a medic, and after that, to the police. You can file charges against me."
"No, Father."
"It's your decision. I'll abide by it. Perhaps it would be best for me. I can't seem to control my temper. Maybe there is some way I can be helped."
"Father, I—"
"You know I've never had much use for psychiatry. It seems to me they know less about the human mind than I do. But maybe there is some form of medication, some pill or brain treatment...."
"That's an awful idea," Sparky said. "You know how those pills you used to take after that... after the time you... well, you know what I mean. You could hardly remember your lines after a walk across the stage."
Valentine smiled. "You remember that, do you? Oh, it wasn't so bad. And if I have to, we'll just cast someone else in my role. I'll stay on as director." He laughed. "Who ever said a director needs to remember lines?"
He still had his hand extended toward his son, and now there was a hint of edginess in his eyes, as if he knew the gesture had gone on too long, with no response from Sparky. The boy had not said no, but he hadn't taken the hand, either.
"Come on, son. Let's get out of here. We'll put the whole show on hiatus if we have to. We'll get you up to snuff on the fencing. No more cutting, I promise. We can talk about the rest of it, too. I'm going to change, Kenneth, I promise you."
After a momentary hesitation Sparky started toward his father.
"Hold it right there, Sparky," Destry said. Sparky stopped.
"Now, I'm only going to say this once, my friend," he said, never taking his eyes from Valentine. "A minute ago you said you were quitting the show. You said you needed some time to think things through. Most of all, you said you were making your own decisions now. I took it as a declaration of independence from your father."
"Sir," Valentine said, coldly, slashing his sword through the empty air, "you are int
erfering. This is none of your business."
"I think it is. You asked me a minute ago why I brought these." He rested the heels of his hands on the gun butts. "I'm not a violent man, Mr. Valentine. These were my father's pistols. I hung them up a long time ago, but there comes a time when you have to put them on again. When violence has to be met with violence. Now, I know Sparky isn't capable of resisting you, physically. So I will, if I have to."
For the first time he glanced at the young man.
"So what's it going to be, Sparky? I'll back your play, whatever it is. But I want you to know this. If you go with him, well, that's your choice. But if you do, I'll go away, and you'll never see me again."
Sparky looked from one man to the other. It was high noon, right there on the stage of the Valentine Theater. Tom Destry and John Valentine never glanced at him, their gazes locked. Valentine's eyes blazed with fury. Destry was calm and resolute.
"Let's go, Kenneth," Valentine said, and took a step toward his son.
Sparky looked back and forth. He was so tired, so desperately tired. And in the end, he thought later, that was the biggest factor in his choice. There was only one way he'd ever get any rest.
"I'm sorry, Father," he said, and walked toward his friend.
"No!" Valentine shouted, and raised his sword, charging toward the two of them.
"Elwood, don't!"
But the gun was out of its holster. Valentine was only a few feet away, already starting to slash downward with the blade. Sparky grabbed Elwood's arm and the gun fired. The shot took Valentine in the forehead and threw him back in a cloud of smoke and blood.
Sparky was going to wrestle the weapon from Elwood/Destry, but the man made no resistance, and Sparky was left standing, holding the hot gun barrel. He stared down at it. Etched on the side were the words THIMBLE THEATER PROP DEPARTMENT.
A prop gun? Fake blood?
He went down on one knee and touched his father's face. There was a hole an inch above his right eye. Blood was pumping sluggishly from it, to pool in the eye socket and then run down into the ear. The left eye was open and the pupil was a black hole that swallowed all hope.
"Doctors," Sparky mumbled. "We have to get medical help." He put his hand under his father's head, meaning to lift and cradle it until help arrived. What he felt back there was a hole he could put his fist in, and jagged edges of bone. Valentine lay in a pool of blood and in this red sea were islands of other matter.
"I'm afraid it can't be fixed, Sparky," Destry said.
Sparky pulled his hand back. There were chunks of brain clinging to it.
"Help him," Sparky whimpered. He looked up at Destry, who stood a little apart looking solemnly down at the man he had just killed.
"I wouldn't have cared if he was just coming at me," Destry said. "But you saw it. He was trying to kill you. He forced my hand."
Sparky didn't register anything the man said. He kept looking from his father's ruined face to the pistol in his hand. He might have knelt there forever but he heard footsteps coming from backstage. He looked up.
It was Hildy Johnson and Rose, the assistant stage manager. They stopped while still in the wings, looking out to the stage.
"Sorry, Mr. Valentine," Rose said. "We heard a noise...." She began to turn from the scene of fake mayhem. It wasn't any of her business. But Hildy was frowning, and Rose looked at Sparky's face.
Sparky stood, and the gun thudded to the floor. He held up his bloody hand to show it to Destry... to Elwood....
No one was there.
Rose began to scream.
Hildy started running toward him.
Sparky ran.
* * *
In a very real sense, I've been running for seventy years now.
I opened my eyes, looked around me as if emerging from a dream, and there's certainly a sense in which that is very real, too. But the dream had never before left me in the little park, right across the corridor from the scene of the crime. I determined I was out of the dream now, not in it. All my life, this has been a harder determination than you might suppose.
I don't revisit that memory a lot. I've never been far from it, never tried to deny its "reality," so to speak. I have become adept at veering away from it when I feel it approaching.
But every few years it is worth taking it out and examining it. To see if it has changed, after these seventy long years.
Because, you see, I believe very little of it. Neither should you.
The most vivid memory of my life is a lie.
It's a very theatrical memory, isn't it? My father is shot to death—the bullet destroyed the brain, which is the only organ we can't repair, the only wound we cannot recover from—by a peace-loving fictional character who vanishes when witnesses arrive. No one saw the shot fired except the "three" of us. And there I am, standing by the dead man, blood all over me. The murder weapon is in my hand, still warm. Though I didn't stay to find out, I am sure that only my fingerprints are on the gun. I am sure no one saw Elwood enter or leave the theater.
Would you hang around to tell the police a ridiculous story like that?
Elwood P. Dowd is my imaginary friend. I have known that, and known the difference between him, his gallery of characters, and real people almost from the moment I met him. Therefore, there were only two people on that fatal stage. Therefore, everything that happened from the moment Elwood called out to my father is a dream/drama made up by me. Therefore, I killed my father.
There is an irony here. To have done something as awful as that... to be a patricide. To have never sought to avoid responsibility for my actions. (Avoid the consequences? Hell, yes; I've been running from them for seventy years. But I don't shirk the moral responsibility, which is a completely different thing than the legal sort.) But I am willing to admit, to myself, that it was I, I who did it. I have borne the burden of that act for a long time. I never sought to set it down. And yet one part of my mind, a part I've never been able to understand but almost certainly the part that allowed such a terribly conflicted young man to do such a thing in the first place, has robbed me of the true story of what happened that day.
My father did come at me with a blade that day. I think.
He did try to kill me. I'm fairly sure.
It was self-defense. I'd almost swear to it.
And I killed him. Of that, I am sure.
Recall the sequence, there at the end. My father is rushing across the stage, sword raised. Is he coming toward me? He must be, though I see him rushing toward Elwood. I see Elwood go for his gun, and I am running toward him. I reach him as he is raising and aiming the gun. I grab his arm. And it is here that reality must have intersected with my fantasies, because the gun goes off in my hand, doesn't it? Oh, I feel as if Elwood is still holding it, but I feel the heat and the recoil in my own hand.
And it is a prop gun. One I could easily have taken from the prop department of my own studio. Concealed it somewhere in the wings. When I left the stage, shortly before returning to finally stand up to my father, in my fashion, that must have been when I picked up the gun.
(A word about props. Don't be fooled by the term. There are "pure" props, made entirely for show. They can be plaster, wood, whatever looks best. And there are "practical" props. A light switch that actually controls lights on the stage. A piano that can actually be played. Most often, it is easier to simply use the actual object and call it a prop. The sword my father carried came from the prop department, but would kill you just as dead as any other sword. And the gun I stole was all too practical. So was the bullet.)
Did I intend to kill him all along? Or did I simply hope to defend myself when I stole that gun, hid it, and then destroyed all memory of having done so?
I must assume that murder was my intention. I do recall, seeing him lying there, dead, that one thought kept circling through the chaos of my mind. It was something he himself was fond of telling me. He had said it a thousand times.
"Dodger," he would say. "Never b
ring a knife to a gunfight."
I listened, and remembered. He forgot.
* * *
It was such a pleasant little park. Which was a good thing, because I wasn't sure I could move. I had tried to get up several times, and my legs didn't seem to work.
It was a feeling that went far beyond exhaustion. I had come... well, to tell you the truth, I don't even know how many billion miles I came. I suppose a solar atlas would give me the answer, but to what point? I didn't want to go back. Otherwise, I'd have left a trail of bread crumbs. But Brementon to Pluto, Pluto to Oberon, Oberon to Jupiter to Sol to Luna, I had fetched up here, on this park bench. I had thought it was all intentional, all part of some plan I had, but it didn't feel like that now. I felt like a marble in a pachinko game, rattling randomly among the pins, coming to rest at the bottom, where no points are scored. And it had always been inevitable that the bottom was where I'd end up.
I don't mean "the bottom" in the sense of any suicidal feeling. Nor am I talking of the bottom an alcoholic hits, or the economic bottom of a failed businessman, contemplating his lost riches. I had money in my jeans. I was only a few steps away from what could be the crowning achievement of my acting career. I had prospects, as the world usually measures them.
I just couldn't seem to find a reason to stand up.
I am fortune's fool.
* * *
I knew he would be there somewhere. I looked around, examining the strollers, the bench sitters, those stretched out on the cool grass.
He was across the park, sitting with his back to me. It was the hat, of course. With Elwood it's usually the hat, which is always out of fashion. But it wasn't the "Elwood P. Dowd" hat today, though it was similar. When Elwood changes character, it's usually because he has something important to say.
I looked at his back until he seemed to feel it. He stood, turned, looked across the park at me for a while, then started toward me in the shambling gait all his characters share. His hands were thrust deep in the pockets of his baggy trousers.
He was Paul Biegler, the defense attorney from Anatomy of a Murder.