Orbit 11 - [Anthology]

by Edited by Damon Night

  Perhaps it was the silence that hooked her and drew her up out of the thick waters. As soon as she became fully conscious, however, she heard the clicking of the typewriter start up.

  The upper part of the house was almost always clean and neat. Millie was only eleven, but she was the only female in the household, her mother having died when Millie was nine. Millie never cleaned the basement because her father forbade it.

  The big basement room was his province. There he kept all his reference books, and there he wrote at a long desk. This room and the adjoining furnace-utility room constituted her father’s country (he even did the washing), and if it was a mess to others, it was order to him. He could reach into the chaos and pluck out anything he wanted with no hesitation.

  Her father was a free-lance writer, a maker of literary soups, a potboiler cook. He wrote short stories and articles for men’s and women’s magazines under male or female names, science fiction novels, trade magazines articles, and an occasional Gothic. Sometimes he got a commission to write a novel based on a screenplay.

  “I’m the poor man’s Frederick Faust,” her father had said many times. “I won’t be remembered ten years from now. Not by anyone who counts. I want to be remembered, baby, to be reprinted through the years as a classic, to be written of, talked of, as a great writer. And so. . . .”

  And so, on the left side of his desk, in a file basket, was half a manuscript, three hundred pages. Pop had been working on it, on and off, mostly off, for fifteen years. It was to be his masterpiece, the one book that would transcend all his hackwork, the book that would make the public cry “Wow!” the one book by him that would establish him as a Master. (“Capital M, baby!”) It would put his name in the Encyclopaedia Britannica; he would not take up much space in it; a paragraph was all he asked.

  He had patted her hand and said, “And so when you tell people your name, they’ll say, ‘You aren’t the daughter of the great Brady X. Donaldson? You are? Fantastic! And what was he really like, your father?’ “

  And then, reaching out and stroking her pointed chin, he had said, “I hope you can be proud of having a father who wrote at least one great book, baby. But, of course, you’ll be famous in your own right. You have unique abilities, and don’t you ever forget it. A kid with your talents has to grow up into a famous person. I only wish that I could be around. . . .”

  He did not go on. Neither of them cared to talk about his heart “infraction,” as he insisted on calling it.

  She had not commented on his remark about her “abilities.” He was not aware of their true breadth and depth, nor did she want him to be aware.

  The phone rang. Millie got up out of the chair and walked back and forth in the living room. The typewriter had not even hesitated when the phone rang. Her father was stopping for nothing, and he might not even have heard the phone, so intent was he. This was the only chance he would ever get to finish his Work (“Capital W. baby!”), and he would sit at his desk until it was done. Yet she knew that he could go on like this only so long before falling apart.

  She knew who was calling. It was Mrs. Coombs, the secretary of Mr. Appleton, the principal of Dashwood Grade School. Mrs. Coombs had called every day. The first day, Millie had told Mrs. Coombs that she was sick. No, her father could not come to the phone because he had a very deadly schedule to meet. Millie had opened the door to the basement and turned the receiver of the phone so that Mrs. Coombs could hear the heavy and unceasing typing.

  Millie spoke through her nose and gave a little cough now and then, but Mrs. Coombs’ voice betrayed disbelief.

  “My father knows I have this cold, and so he doesn’t see why he should be bothered telling anybody that I have it. He knows I have it. No, it’s not bad enough to go to the doctor for it. No, my father will not come to the phone now. You wouldn’t like it if he had to come to the phone now. You can be sure of that.

  “No, I can’t promise you he’ll call before five, Mrs. Coombs. He doesn’t want to stop while he’s going good, and I doubt very much he’ll be stopping at five. Or for some time after, if I know my father. In fact, Mrs. Coombs, I can’t promise anything except that he won’t stop until he’s ready to stop.”

  Mrs. Coombs had made some important-sounding noises, but she finally said she’d call back tomorrow. That is, she would unless Millie was at school in the morning, with a note from her father, or unless her father called in to say that she was still sick.

  The second day, Mrs. Coombs had phoned again, and Millie had let the ringing go on until she could stand it no longer.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Coombs, but I feel lots worse. And my father didn’t call in, and won’t, because he is typing. Here, I’ll hold the phone to the door so you can hear him.”

  Millie waited until Mrs. Coombs seemed to have run down.

  “Yes, I can appreciate your position, Mrs. Coombs, but he won’t come, and I won’t ask him to. He has so little time left, you know, and he has to finish this one book, and he isn’t listening to any such thing as common sense or . . . No, Mrs. Coombs, I’m not trying to play on your sympathies with this talk about his heart trouble.

  “Father is going to sit there until he’s done. He said this is his lifework, his only chance for immortality. He doesn’t believe in life after death, you know. He says that a man’s only chance for immortality is in the deeds he does or the works of art he produces.

  “Yes, I know it’s a peculiar situation, and he’s a peculiar man, and I should be at school.”

  And you, Mrs. Coombs, she thought, you think I’m a very peculiar little girl, and you don’t really care that I’m not at school today. In fact, you like it that I’m not there because you get chills every time you see me.

  “Yes, Mrs. Coombs, I know you’ll have to take some action, and I don’t blame you for it. You’ll send somebody out to check; you have to do it because the rules say you have to, not because you think I’m lying.

  “But you can hear my father typing, can’t you? You surely don’t think that’s a recording of a typist, do you?”

  She shouldn’t have said that, because now Mrs. Coombs would be thinking exactly that.

  She went into the kitchen and made more coffee. Pop had forbidden her coffee until she was fourteen, but she needed it to keep going. Besides, he wouldn’t know anything about it. He had told her, just before he had felt the first pain, that he could finish the Work in eighty-four to ninety-six hours if he were uninterrupted and did not have to stop because of exhaustion or another attack.

  “I’ve got it all composed up here,” he had said, pointing a finger at his temple. “It’s just a matter of sitting down and staying down, and that’s what I’m going to do, come hell or high water, come infraction or infarction. In ten minutes, I’m going down into my burrow, and I’m not coming back up until I’m finished.”

  “But, Pop,” Millie had said, “I don’t see how you can. Exercise or excitement is what brings on an attack. . . .”

  “I got my pills, and I’ll rest if I have to and take longer,” he had said. “So it takes two weeks? But I don’t think it will. Listen, Millie,” and he had taken her hand in his and looked into her eyes as if they were binoculars pointing into a fourth dimension, “I’m depending on you more than on my pills or even on myself. You’ll not let anybody or anything interfere, will you? I know I shouldn’t ask you to stay home from school, but this is more important than school. I really need you. I can’t afford to put this off any longer. I don’t have the time. You know that.”

  He had released her hand and started toward the basement door, saying, “This is it; here goes,” when his face had twisted and he had grabbed his chest.

  But that had not stopped him.

  The phone rang. It was, she knew, Mrs. Coombs again.

  Mrs. Coombs’ voice was as thin as river ice in late March.

  “You tell your father that officers will be on their way to your house within a few minutes. They’ll have a warrant to enter.”
r />   “You’re causing a lot of trouble and for no good reason,” Millie said. “Just because you don’t like me...”

  “Well, I never!” Mrs. Coombs said. “You know very well that I’m doing what I have to and, in fact, I’ve been overly lenient in this case. There’s no reason in the world why your father can’t come to the phone. . . .”

  “I told you he had to finish his novel,” Millie said. “That’s all the reason he needs.”

  She hung up the phone and then stood by the door for a moment, listening to the typing below. She turned and looked through the kitchen door at the clock on the wall. It was almost twelve. She doubted that anybody would come during the lunch hour, despite what Mrs. Coombs said. That gave her—her father, rather—another hour, And then she would see what she could do.

  She tried to eat but could get down only half the liverwurst and lettuce sandwich. She wrapped the other half and put it back into the refrigerator. She looked at herself in the small mirror near the wall clock. She, who could not afford to lose an ounce, had shed pounds during the past three and a half days. As if they were on scales, her cheekbones had risen while her eyes had sunk. The dark brown irises and the bloodshot whites of her eyes looked like two fried eggs with ketchup that someone had thrown against a wall.

  She smiled slightly at the thought, but it hurt to see her face. She looked like a witch and always would.

  “But you’re only eleven!” her father had boomed to her. “Is it a tragedy at eleven because the boys haven’t asked you for a date yet? My God, when I was eleven, we didn’t ask girls for dates. We hated girls!”

  Yet his Great Work started with the first-love agonies of a boy of eleven, and he had admitted long ago that the boy was himself.

  Millie sighed again and left the mirror. She cleaned the front room but did not use the vacuum cleaner because she wanted to hear the typewriter keys. The hour passed, and the doorbell rang.

  She sat down in a chair. The doorbell rang again and again. Then there was silence for a minute, followed by a fist pounding on the door.

  Millie got up from the chair but went to the door at the top of the basement steps and opened it. She breathed deeply, made a face, went down the wooden steps and around the corner at the bottom and looked down the long room with its white-painted cement blocks and pine paneling. She could not see her father because a tall and broad dark-mahogany bookcase in the middle of the room formed the back of what he called his office. The chair and desk were on the other side, but she could see the file basket on the edge of the desk. Her practiced eye told her that the basket held almost five hundred pages, not counting the carbon copies.

  The typewriter clattered away. After a while, she went back up the steps and across to the front door. She opened the peephole and looked through. Two of the three looked as if they could be plainclothesmen. The third was the tall, beefy, red-faced truant officer.

  “Hello, Mr. Tavistock,” she said through the peephole. “What can I do for you?”

  “You can open the door and let me in to talk to your father,” he growled. “Maybe he can explain what’s been going on, since you won’t.”

  “I told Mrs. Coombs all about it,” Millie said. “She’s a complete ass, making all this fuss about nothing.”

  “That’s no way for a lady to talk, Millie,” Mr. Tavistock said. “Especially an eleven-year-old. Open the door. I got a warrant.”

  He waved a paper in his huge hand.

  “My father’ll have you in court for trampling on his civil rights,” Millie said. “I’ll come to school tomorrow. I promise. But not today. My father mustn’t be bothered.”

  “Let me in now, or we break the door down!” Mr. Tavistock shouted. “There’s something funny going on, Millie, otherwise your father would’ve contacted the school long ago!”

  “You people always think there’s something funny about me, that’s all!” Millie shouted back.

  “Yeah, and Mrs. Coombs fell down over the wastebasket and wrenched her back right after she phoned you,” Tavistock said. “Are you going to open that door?”

  It would take them only a minute or so to kick the door open even if she chained it. She might as well let them in. Still, two more minutes might be all that were needed.

  She reached for the knob and then dropped her hand. The typing had stopped.

  She walked to the top of the basement steps.

  “Pop! Are you through?”

  She heard the squeaking of the swivel chair, then a shuffling sound. The house shook, and there was a crash as someone struck the front door with his body. A few seconds later, another crash was followed by the bang of the door against the inner wall. Mr. Tavistock said, “All right, boys! I’ll lead the way!”

  He sounded as if he were raiding a den of bank robbers, she thought.

  She went around the corner to the front room and said, “I think my father is through.”

  “In more ways than one, Millie,” Mr. Tavistock said.

  She turned away and walked back around the corner, through the door and out onto the landing. Her father was standing at the bottom of the steps. His color was very bad and he looked as if he had gained much weight, though she knew that that was impossible.

  He looked up at her from deeply sunken eyes, and he lifted the immense pile of sheets with his two hands.

  “All done, Pop?” Millie said, her voice breaking.

  He nodded slowly.

  Millie heard the three men come up behind her. Mr. Tavistock leaned over her and said, “Whew!”

  Millie turned and pushed at him. “Get out of my way! He’s finished it!”

  Mr. Tavistock glared, but he moved to one side. She walked to a chair and sat down heavily. One of the detectives said, “You look awful, Millie. You look like you haven’t slept for a week.”

  “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to sleep,” she said. She breathed deeply and allowed her muscles to go loose. Her head lolled as if she had given up control over everything inside her.

  There was a thumping noise from the basement. Mr. Tavistock cried out, “He’s fainted!” The shoes of the three men banged on the steps as they ran down. A moment later Mr. Tavistock gave another cry. Then all three men began talking at once.

  Millie closed her eyes and wished she could quit trembling. Sometime later, she heard the footsteps. She did not want to open her eyes, but there was no use putting it off.

  Mr. Tavistock was pale and shaking. He said, “My God! He looks, he smells like . . .”

  One of the detectives said, “His fingertips are worn off, the bones are sticking out, but there wasn’t any bleeding.”

  “I got him through,” Millie said. “He finished it. That’s all that counts.”

  <>

  * * * *

  Edward Wellen

  DOWN BY THE OLD MAELSTROM

  They held their breath. Ben Copeland slowed the Hertz VW to take the twists and turns of the baffles leading to the Wall. Soon the steel poles would lift and they would pass under the black-red-and-gold banner with hammer and pair of compasses, then Checkpoint Charlie and the real world, with the East German banner waving ‘bye. But first the customs shed.

  Inside, four men stood behind a counter under four signs—Grenz Polizei, Transport Polizei, Kriminal Polizei, Volks Polizei. The border policeman leered at the six tourists, rolling his eyes at the three women.

  “I’m Grepo. Meet Trapo—”

  Trapo shook a head of blond curls like wood shavings—they were wood shavings; some fell out—and squeezed a heehaw out of a small Martinshorn he carried.

  “Kripo—”

  Kripo, in vestigiubbal tatters and conical hat, said, “That’s-a conical, not-a comical.” He blew his nose; the hat tipped.

  “And Vopo.”

  Vopo sprang into an operatic stance and piped, “Doch mir ist bang, ja mir ist bang—”

  Grepo absently banged him on the head with an outsize passport stamp.

  “Ihren Ausweis, b
itte!” The tourists handed him their passports and papers. He waggled his eyebrows. “You have enjoyed your stay in the Deutsche Demokratische Republik?”

  Ben’s heart seized up. He couldn’t remember a thing about their stay. He peered at their papers in Grepo’s keeping. He smiled and nodded.

  While Grepo shuffled their papers and Kripo cut, Ben looked around. At a desk behind Grepo a tonsured monkey in sackcloth sat working on a palimpsest, relettering Sieg order Sibirien!, the encouraging words of the last days of the Third Reich, to read Sieg Oder-Neisse! The scribe shooed a black-letter fly specking the parchment, then flung his inkwell at it. The splash, drip-drying on the wall, took the shape of a devil. Grepo whipped out his lighter and playfully threatened to singe the monkey’s paw.