When she reached the plot at the north end of the cemetery, the little woman stood very still for a long time, clutching the roses to her bosom and silently regarding the three graves before her. Then she sighed deeply and distributed the flowers upon the graves.
The monuments were identical. Of pale white stone, smooth on the front and each topped with a figure of Cupid, they were spotless and suggested eternity. Upon the first was the inscription:
GUSTAV HALSTEAD
1897-1948
“A Good Man”
upon the second:
JOHN JACOB FOGARTY
1889-1950
“A Good Man”
and upon the third:
ALONZO HUMPHRIES
1890-1951
“A Good Man”
The third was the most recently chiseled, but, like the others, after the Roman manner.
The little woman shifted her silver fox furpiece so that the head, with its tiny staring eyes, dangled from her arm. With this arm she reached out and stroked consecutively the heads of the granite Cupids.
When the gentleman standing in the plot directly across straightened his shoulders and replaced his hat, the little woman with the orange hair said, “Such a good man.”
The gentleman turned his head.
“I beg pardon,” he said, “but were you speaking to me, madam?”
“What? Oh, oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize—It’s just that—just that—” and with this the little woman put a hand to her head, veered uncertainly and slumped against the third tombstone. The gentleman in the next plot stared briefly, flushed and hurried to be of assistance.
“My dear woman, what’s the matter? Here, my arm.”
The little woman shifted her weight and breathed heavily for a space. Then she smiled.
“Silly of me,” she said. “Only there are times when I suddenly feel so lost in this lonely place, so without hope.”
The gentleman said, “I understand.”
“All of a sudden I just went weak. I’m sorry you were troubled. I meant to trouble no one.”
“Not a bit of it! When I saw you fall I was afraid, well, that you were distressed or ill. People do that sort of thing here; sometimes have to be carried off. But you’re all right now?”
“It was good of you. Yes, I believe so. Merely a woman’s weakness.”
The gentleman said, “I understand” for a second time and glanced at the nearest grave.
“Oh. Some relative, or friend—?” he asked.
“If only it were!” cried the little woman. “That is, it is much worse. Lying deceased, there in the cold ground, is my late husband, Alonzo Humphries, may the good Lord bless and take his sweet soul.” She clutched once more for support.
“Honestly?”
“Only six months ago I had Alonzo to help and guide me. Only six months. And now—”
They stood in silence as twilight crept upon all the tombstones and birds sang doleful melodies.
“My name is Smythe,” said the gentleman, “Mordecai Smythe. I do hope you don’t take offense at my interest.”
Mrs. Humphries bit her lower lip and fell in a spasm upon the chest of Mr. Smythe, who, being a small man, was obliged to brace his heels in unnaturally soft earth. He held the sobbing woman.
Then Mrs. Humphries regained her strength.
“But you,” she said, brokenly, “you too must be bereaved.”
“Yes, yes, I’m afraid that’s true. Over there,” he gestured, “is my late wife, Addie, a help and a joy to me for many years.”
“Oh dear, oh dear, you poor man. We sometimes forget that others share our unhappiness, don’t we? You must be terribly hurt.”
“Twelve years ago,” said Mr. Smythe, gazing off into the mist, “she left me. But I come here every day; stay for hours and hours.” He paused. “I’ve been here since noon. Somehow, I find that it’s a help. I suppose, Mrs. Humphries, you think that a foolish idea of an old man?”
“No, indeed not. I think it’s very inspiring. Why, you must even go without lunch!”
“Yes. You see, Addie passed on during lunch and—I have not been really hungry since.”
“I’m sorry. Oh, people don’t seem to feel the same way nowadays. Haven’t you noticed it, Mr. Smythe?”
“I certainly—”
“I mean, marriage has taken on a new form in this modern world. It may be old fashioned of me, but I have always felt there is something sacred in marriage, something not even death could completely break asunder. It was the way Alonzo felt.”
“You were married a long time?”
“In years, in this mortal plane? No, Mr. Smythe, not a long time in that sense. But in the spiritual sense, my late husband and I were joined since the very beginning.”
Mr. Smythe took his hand quickly from Mrs. Humphries’ shoulder. She swayed.
“You’re right,” he said, bitterly. “It means nothing to people nowadays. Live or die, it’s all the same. They say, You must go on, and they can’t understand why you don’t. Do you know, you’ve been the first person I’ve met who’s seemed to understand why I should want to come here every day!”
“I understand because I try to come as frequently myself. Often I have seen you, Mr. Smythe, and wanted somehow to comfort you.”
“You have wanted to help me? Oh, Mrs. Humphries, oh, my good woman. . . .”
“Grief is a lonely thing.”
“And you actually come every day?”
“Yes. I also have my reasons.”
“No one, absolutely no one has been able to understand. They tell me I’m getting old, they tell me I shouldn’t come to the cemetery.”
“Perhaps,” suggested Mrs. Humphries, “these other people have never known the fullness of love.”
Mr. Smythe thumped his umbrella on the ground.
“Of course, of course, that’s it! The fullness of love! Why, they’ve all forgotten the meaning of the word.”
A thin rain began to fall in silver drops upon the cemetery. The two were alone, or as alone as it is possible to be in such a place, and they spoke in hushed tones, full of respect.
A drop of rain fell upon Mr. Smythe’s nose and he opened his umbrella. In so doing he glanced at the other headstones upon whose mounds he was standing.
“Your family plot?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Humphries, simply.
“We’d better get on. That is, you might catch cold or something, here like this. Have you a car?”
Mrs. Humphries pointed across the tombs.
“Then, if it wouldn’t seem rude, since it is raining, I mean—”
“Mr. Smythe, I would greatly appreciate the shelter of your umbrella to my car.”
They descended from the graves and walked slowly alongside a row of eucalyptus trees.
“It’s such a shame, in a way, Mr. Smythe. You should eat lunch and take care of yourself. Wouldn’t—wouldn’t she have wanted it that way?”
“Addie did so many things for me, I’ve fallen out of a lot since then. What does a retired businessman do, Mrs. Humphries, when he has lost his beacon?”
“I know, I know.”
“Just aimless wandering, aimless, lonely wandering.”
“Lonely.”
“No one to understand, no one to turn to.”
“I know.”
“May I ask,” said Mr. Smythe, stopping, “was it easy with your husband? I mean to say, his last moments were not painful?”
“Alonzo went quietly from this world.”
“Heart trouble?”
“Well, no,” corrected Mrs. Humphries, “not exactly that. Poison in his system. He was never a well man.”
“Ah yes, I see. It was not so with me. Poor Addie took convulsions. It was horrible—during lunch, you know.”
“How awful for you. What a great deal you have borne, Mr. Smythe!”
“Most other people don’t seem to think so. Say it happens every day.”
Mrs. Hump
hries edged closer in upon the umbrella.
“For me,” she said, “it’s like being taken and thrown into a dark pit. Alonzo was somewhat older than myself—oh, I knew it, but I had always wanted a mature man—and because of this I suppose I should have been prepared. But we’re never prepared, never, are we! He used to say to me, ‘Effie,’ he would say, ‘Effie, you are a fine woman and I was more than lucky to get you. But you must start thinking about afterwards. You must live when I am gone, for you have many good years ahead of you.’ He used to tell me how lost he was before he met me, how I’d helped and aided him . . . But to go on now, with Alonzo sleeping under this very ground . . .”
Mrs. Humphries applied a handkerchief to her face and they were obliged to stop once more.
“Your husband said these things to you?” Mr. Smythe asked, as the walk was resumed. “Addie never put it quite like that.”
“Alonzo was a good man.”
“And he told you to go on, to live and things like that?”
“He did. Poor soul, he never realized how few people there are in the world with whom one could ever be really close. Close as a man and woman in love are.”
Mr. Smythe clenched his teeth tightly and his stride became brisker.
“I never knew anyone else felt that way. It’s how I feel; it’s why I have to come here every day.”
“Oh, but is there another life anywhere in this lonely world, for people like us, Mr. Smythe? I try, I want to think there is. But it’s hard, so very hard, when one feels so alone.”
Mr. Smythe opened his mouth to reply when his foot caught on a little wooden cross.
“Yes,” he said, finding his balance, “that’s true.”
The rain thickened and the moon shone faintly through black clouds.
“Well, this is the drivepath. Is that your car?”
“Yes. A gift from Alonzo.”
Mrs. Humphries unlocked the door of the large black Cadillac and slid gracefully behind the steering wheel.
“He used to drive it all the time,” she said. “I don’t do it so well, I’m afraid. But I’m going to have to learn a lot of things now, aren’t I?”
Mr. Smythe accepted the gloved hand and shook it vigorously.
“You—you’ve been a consolation,” he mumbled, “the day being so gloomy and all.”
“And you helped me. I’ll remember your help and your understanding.”
Mr. Smythe continued to shake the hand that had somehow remained in his own. “Yes . . . well, ah, thank you,” he said.
Mrs. Humphries pushed back a strand of her orange hair, flung the silver fox furpiece about her neck and turned on the ignition of the Cadillac.
“We are two very lonely people, Mr. Smythe.”
“Yes, aren’t we, though. Perhaps—perhaps I will see you here again some time?”
“Perhaps. Seek strength in God, as I do. She would have wanted it like that. Goodbye.”
“Remarkable. Remarkable.”
Mrs. Humphries looked toward the dark-shrouded cemetery where, outlined dimly against the moon, could be seen three identical graves. She sighed and released the emergency brake.
Mr. Smythe bowed stiffly. “A man can be rich and own the earth,” he remarked, “and still be alone. Goodbye.”
He pulled his hat down tighter over his bald head and gestured with his umbrella. A black limousine rolled into sight.
Slowly the old gentleman walked toward the limousine.
“Oh, Mr. Smythe!”
He turned.
“Do you happen to like fried chicken?”
The Rival
Ryan Publications, Inc., glared impatiently at the elevator door, hit it once with his fist, and started up the stairs. His face was a composition in red. When he saw a reflection of it in the second-landing mirror, he paused. Easy, he told himself. Calm. Whatever you do, don’t let her see that you’re angry. Hurt, yes. Disappointed. But not angry!
He waited for his heart to stop hammering, then he straightened his tie, turned, and walked to the door.
No hint, now, he thought, as he entered the huge, modernistic living room. Let her hang herself.
“Tim?”
He resisted the impulse to ask who else she would be expecting at seven p.m. “Yeah.”
“Be out in a sec!”
He tossed his hat onto the white leather couch and went to the bar and poured himself a double-Scotch. No question about it, he thought, downing half the glass. Her voice is dripping with guilt. Right now, she’s in there, biting her lip, wondering—
He froze as a new thought came into his mind. Ann would never run such a risk, he told himself; yet, he would never have believed the other story, either, if he hadn’t been given proof. Slowly, his eyes began to rove the room. At the closet, they paused.
He walked silently across the thick pile rug and opened the door. Almost at once he saw the coat. A brown-and-white check, faded and threadbare.
Again his heart began to hammer, only this time he could not control it. Right in my own apartment! he thought, trying not to believe what his reason told him. And—he looked again at the coat—with a bum, at that!
He gulped the rest of the Scotch and walked to the bathroom door. The shower was going full blast, and he could hear Ann humming.
Maybe, he thought, catching sight of the bedroom, he’s here now. Hiding. Why not? I wasn’t supposed to be home until midnight; she knew that. The coat’s still there in the closet . . .
Forcing the sordid picture from his mind, Ryan made an exploratory trip. He was on his hands and knees, peering under the bed when Ann’s voice said: “Did you lose your cuff-links again, darling?”
He jumped to his feet. “Yes,” he said.
“Find them?”
“No.”
Ann stood in the doorway, clad in a fluffy pink bath towel. Smiling, she walked to Ryan and kissed him gently on the cheek; then she began to dress.
“You’re home early,” she said. “Forget something?”
Ryan shook his head. “No,” he said, “as a matter of fact, I didn’t. I just decided to come home early. Anything wrong with that?”
“Just a little surprising, is all.”
“I imagine so.” He let the comment hang in the air for a moment, then, when it had dissipated, he turned toward the window. “I—thought we might make an evening of it,” he said, carefully.
There was a short silence. Then: “Gosh, honey, that would be wonderful. But I promised Judy I’d go with her to that travel lecture tonight. You know, the one on Siam. She’s made plans and everything. You do understand, don’t you, dear?”
Ryan faced his wife. She was pulling on a sleeveless blue evening gown. “I understand,” he said, tightly, “that you’re a liar.”
Ann stopped, her hands still behind her back, her fingers on the zipper of the dress. “What?” she said, in a small, still voice.
“I said that you’re a liar. No doubt you did make an appointment tonight, but it wasn’t with Judy Hunter, and it wasn’t for a travel lecture. Neither were those other engagements.”
“What’s the matter with you, Tim? What are you talking about?”
Ryan felt the anger slide away, to be replaced by a heavy sadness. “Drop the act,” he said. “I ran into Fred Hunter at lunch today. He told me he hadn’t seen you for three months.”
“Tim, I—”
“He said Judy’s been down with a cold since last Saturday; hasn’t been out of the house.”
Ann bit her lip, the way she did whenever she was confused, but she did not speak.
Ryan took a step toward her. “There’s someone else, isn’t there?” he said. “You might as well tell the truth. It won’t make any difference now.”
Slowly, Ann nodded.
Ryan sighed. He felt betrayed, cheated—after all, hadn’t he slaved day and night for years, building a small trade magazine business into a veritable publishing empire, for her, for them?—but, mostly, he felt hurt.
; “Do you love him?”
“Yes.”
“Who is he? Someone I know?”
Ann whispered, “Not exactly. You used to, though.”
“I did?”
She nodded. “A long time ago.”
Ryan searched his mind, frantically. Bob Stevens? No; Bob was in Cleveland. Dave Mundt? Ridiculous.
“Who?”
Ann paused, got a small handkerchief from the bureau drawer and touched her eyes. Looking at her, Ryan realized, suddenly, that she was still young and beautiful, just as she’d been when they were married. Everything seemed new to him.
“Would you like to meet him, Tim?”
He started to say, “No!” but that, he saw, would be admitting utter defeat. It was neither adult nor modern. “Why not?” he said, bitterly. “We could settle the whole thing. Besides, we have a lot in common already.”
“No,” Ann said, looking at him, “that isn’t really true.” She turned, and her tone changed to one of crisp efficiency. “Zip me up, darling. And hurry. I’m late as it is.”
They rode in silence down the twisting boulevard, Ryan driving much faster than he usually did. After a half-hour he said, “Where now?”
“Keep going,” Ann said. “When you get to the beach highway, turn right. I’ll tell you from there.”
Again, silence. The air turned cold as they approached the beach and Ryan rolled up his window. “This guy,” he said, trying to keep his voice twentieth-century, “What’s he like?”
“Oh,” Ann said, “young. Sort of loud and—well, enthusiastic. You may not approve.”
“Good looking, I suppose?”
“Yes. Very.”
“Not too successful, though,” he said, recalling the worn coat.
“Not in your way.”
Ryan laughed.
“But he has a lot of good ideas!”
“I wouldn’t be surprised.” The big Lincoln shot through a tunnel. “This,” Ryan said, “isn’t any of my business, I guess, and it doesn’t make any difference, but as a matter of interest, have you—”
“Several times,” Ann said, emphatically.
Ryan scowled, pressed down the accelerator and skidded around a 30-mile-an-hour turn at 50. On the beach highway, he slowed to a more reasonable speed. To the left, the ocean moved like a dark blanket. He looked at it as he drove and was vaguely aware that he’d not been here for over five years.
A Touch of the Creature Page 9