The Cockroaches of Stay More

by Donald Harington

  His father was the last to leave, in the wee hours, well past midnight. It seemed he would never leave. Squire Hank and Doc Swain could talk all night, and often did, and often simultaneously, neither listening to the other, but neither needing to, since they agreed on almost everything and never argued. Once Squire Hank had remarked to his son, explaining his nightly attendance at Doc Swain’s, “Hit shore beats listenin to myself talk.”

  In his fifth and sixth instars Sam had sometimes followed his father to the porch of Doc Swain’s clinic, and had listened to them talking with what struck Sam as an uncanny ability to appear to listen to the other’s words while speaking one’s own. At these get-togethers, Sam had learned all there was to know about the glorious past of Stay More, and almost all there was to know about the eventual coming of The Bomb. Sam suspected that Doc Swain knew a few things about The Bomb which he would not even share with Squire Hank.

  Sam could not hear these final words that his father spoke to Doc Swain:

  “Best be gittin on down back. Come go home with me.”

  Nor could he hear Doc Swain’s reply:

  “Reckon not tonight. Stay more and spend the day with me.”

  But Sam had heard this exchange countless times when he still had his hearing and he knew that they were exchanging polite leave-takings, neither meaning sincerely the formalities he said. Squire Hank would not even consider actually inviting his best friend to Parthenon, and Doc Swain wasn’t really interested in having Squire Hank sleep over through the day. But still the old roosterroaches continued for at least fifteen minutes:

  “Caint do that, I reckon. Whyn’t ye jist come along down to my place?”

  “Better not. You make yoreself pleasant and stay the whole day.”

  “Time to light out fer home. Come and keep me company.”

  “Not tonight, Squar. You jist move in here and have you some vittles.”

  “Thank ye, Doc, but I’m a mind to git on home. You come with me.”

  Neither roosterroach was willing to yield the last word to the other, and thus these invitations and declinings and counter-invitations continued through infinite variations, until finally Doc Swain made a slight change:

  “Wal, come again, then, and fix to stay a week.”

  “If you’ll come stay a week with me, first. Let’s go.”

  “Won’t do it tonight, I reckon, Hank. You keep a eye out for the White Mouse for me.”

  “I’ll watch fer ’im. See ye tomorrow night.”

  Squire Hank got the last word, and Doc, as a courtesy, let him have it, and Squire Hank hitched up his gitalongs and shuffled along homeward. Sam waited a little while, until his father was completely out of sight and sniff. Doc Swain was alone now, crouched upon his porch, his sniffwhips lying at rest alongside his body, his wise old eyes staring outward into the blackness with a sad expression, as if he were still thinking about The Bomb.

  Doc’s sniffwhips snapped to attention as Sam approached. He required a full second to recognize Sam, and then he spat and said, “Wal, if it aint Samuel! Aint seen you in a locust’s age, my boy.”

  Sam could not hear this, but he said, “Hidy, Doc. How’s ever little thing with you?”

  “Jist fine,” Doc said. “I’m same as usual but what about you? I figgered that Clock had done went and et ye.”

  Sam decided not to pretend further that he could hear, and told the kindly physician, “Doc, I’m near about deaf.”

  “Huh? Wal, it aint no wonder, that old Clock has done et yore tailprongs, maybe. Want I should look ’em over fer ye?”

  Nor did Sam hear this. Doc repeated himself, louder, and Sam saw his mouth working and even felt a waft of his voice along his sniffwhips, but his tailprongs registered no sound. “Am I getting old, Doc?” he asked.

  “That aint it. Here, let me have a look at yore prongs,” Doc insisted and moved around and lifted and lowered each of Sam’s cerci, counting the articles on each. “Nineteen is the most anybody could hope to have, per prong,” Doc assured him, then minutely examined the filaments on each article. “They’re all clean as new pins,” he remarked. “No blasphemy meant.” He abruptly bit one prong.

  “Ouch!” Sam said.

  “Reckon whatever it is,” declared Doc, “it aint likely organic but functional. Know what I think? Samuel, my young friend, I’m afraid that Clock has done went and stunned yore prongs beyond repair. Most all yore life you’ve heared that Clock strike ever hour much too close. It would drive anybody deef.”

  Sam heard none of this, but he asked, desperately, “What can I do?”

  “Wouldn’t do ye no good to move out of the Clock now, I’m afeared,” Doc said. “The damage is done done.”

  “I caint hear you, Doc,” Sam said.

  “I SAID, THE DAMAGE IS DONE DONE!” Doc shouted. “WHAT I RECKON YOU NEED IS, IS A WIFE TO TAKE KEER OF YE!”

  Sam heard this, and blushed. “Aw, Doc…”

  “I fergot,” Doc apologized. “None of you Ingledews has ever had the least bit of nerve when it comes to courtin females. How’re we gonna git ye a wife?” Since Sam could not hear this, Doc was talking more to himself than to Sam, but he was good at that, and continued, “Of course, any gal in Stay More would give her left sniffwhip to be yore wife, but you’d have to perpose, and you’d sooner wester than look a gal in the eye, wouldn’t ye? JIST A MINUTE,” he raised his voice, held up a foreclaw, then disappeared into his clinic. More than a minute passed before he reappeared, dragging behind him something that was almost too heavy for him to pull. It was a pill, of sorts. He presented it to Sam. “HERE,” he said, loudly. “Now don’t ye tell a soul I gave ye this, but haul it along home with ye and keep it, and whenever ye find a gal who strikes yore fancy, why, jist take a nibble or two outen this here pill, and it’ll give ye the nerve to say ‘hidy’ to her.”

  Sam heard none of this, except the “here.” “What’s this?” he asked. “HIT’S SANG,” Doc Swain explained. “Root of the ginseng, and powerful scarce to come by.” Sam’s befuddlement was obvious and Doc had to yell and repeat himself and then yell and repeat a complicated explanation of how ginseng root works, and what it tastes like, and what the indications and contraindications were for its use. When, after much yelling and gesturing, Doc was convinced that Sam understood him, Doc said, “Well?”

  “Doc,” Sam declared, “I came to see you about my deafness and you give me a remedy for impotence.”

  Doc guffawed, and then he explained, loudly and with many repetitions, that the ginseng root would indirectly help Sam’s deafness by giving him the nerve to woo and wed a wife who would become his surrogate tailprongs and do his listening for him.

  “But can’t anything be done directly for my tailprongs?” Sam asked.

  “Wal…” Doc said, and hesitated, and tried to review in his mind all the cases of deafness that he had heard about or treated. Then Doc held up a foreclaw. “There’s only one substance, and it aint scientific like ginseng. It aint even medical, but it never fails. It aint even somethin I’ve seen work before myself, but my education has been sort of classical, ye know. Most likely you’d call this jist one of them oletimey superstitions, and maybe that’s all it is, but it works.”

  “Speak up, Doc,” Sam said. “What is it? Do you have to coat my prongs with mandrake sap or something?”

  “Worse than that,” Doc said. “I could go out tonight and find all the mandrake sap you’d ever hope to want, but that aint it. What you need is grease from the mountings of a church bell, and it has to be a church bell recently rung.”

  Sam stared at Doc and shook his head, and Doc repeated himself so loudly that the bats in the air folded their ears and covered them with their wings. When the prescription had finally registered, Sam exclaimed, “Joshua H. Crust!” without blasphemy to Doc, since Doc wasn’t a Crustian either. Sam tried to picture in his mind’s eye a church bell. The only bell he had ever seen was the bell in the Stay More schoolhouse, which long ago Men had used on in
frequent occasion as a church.

  “Grease,” Sam said, and let several moments pass before adding, “from the mountings,” and a long silence ensued before his next words, “of a church bell,” followed by an interminable hiatus preceding his repetition of the words, “recently rung.” Then he sighed loudly and said to Doc, “History has it that that bell in the Stay More schoolhouse was never rung except for school…or for a funeral. There are no more schoolchildren of Man…or of Woman. And for there to be a funeral, one of Them would have to wester. Who will it be? Well, thanks a whole lot, Doc,” Sam said with no little sarcasm. “It does me a lot of good. Let me know if you hear of any reason They should ring the bell. Or let me know if you hear the bell.” Sam prepared to leave.

  Doc did not bother with the “stay more” ritual. All he said was, loudly, “DON’T FORGET THIS HERE SANG ROOT.”

  Sam stared at the “pill” of ginseng idly, remembered what it was for, and idly dragged it along home, where he ensconced it in a corner of his Clock among his other preserves and collectibles.

  Chapter nine

  Foredawn, that lambent time when the world becomes westerly quiet and still for nocturnal as well as diurnal creatures, Squire John Ingledew, a.k.a. Jack Dingletoon, found himself belly-up atop a liquid medium. The state, condition, or position of “belly-up” is so characteristic of west that some folks seeking to avoid the unpleasant associations of the word “west” employ the euphemism “belly-up.” No insect would consciously lie on its back unless it were west…and if it were west, it would not be conscious. Any insect who accidentally gets into the belly-up position will, like a turtle on its back, kick and struggle like mad to right itself. But Jack did not kick or struggle. He was happy. He was feeling better than he could ever remember having felt, although he was vaguely troubled by an inability to remember clearly how he had reached this state, condition, or position.

  He had been amazed at the welcome he had received in the cookroom of Holy House. He had expected to be denied admission, or at least challenged, and he had been prepared to assert the authority of his lineage. He could not have known that Squire Hank himself had quietly spread word throughout Stay More that Jack Dingletoon should be treated with respect and cordiality, that if Jack actually were an Ingledew then he was due such courtesy, and if he were only deluded into thinking he was an Ingledew he ought to be “humored.”

  Jack had been prepared to barge into the cook-room lashing his sniffwhips right and left and declaring, “Outa my way, boys! I’m a Ingledew, by cracky, and I aim to get my share!” But he’d scarcely had the chance to speak before he was greeted with loud exclamations of “Hidy, Squar John!” and “Proud to see ye, Squar John!” and “Light down and set, Squar John!” and before he knew it they were leading him to a right fair-sized puddle of beer on the linoleum. Between lapping up the brew and pausing to munch a morsel of potato chip or something they thrust upon him, he never got a chance to say a word.

  Late in the night, or rather early in the morning, he had been surprised to see a female come sashaying into the cookroom, and despite his intoxication, or because of what his fellows were saying about her, Jack learned that the female was his own wife, Josie. The cookroom was an all-male preserve, with strict rules governing attendance and excluding all females, but, strangely, the male rooster-roaches had shown Josie the same courtesy and welcome they tendered to Jack, and it had gone to Josie’s head, making her giddier than the beer on which she was allowed to fill up.

  Floating belly-up, Jack wondered, idly, what had become of his wife now. The last he’d paid any notice, she was flirting with Troy Dinsmore, a Smockroach, but it was all just innocent trifling, and old Troy was too drunk to get serious anyhow. Jack turned his head to one side, extended his touchers into the liquid and brought them to his lips. It was a fresher brew than what had been on the linoleum. It still had some fizz to it. Jack wiggled his tailprongs and made it foam a bit.

  Then he noticed the other roosterroach, also floating belly-up. It wasn’t Josie. It appeared to be Jaybird Coe, a Frockroach, who, Jack realized, had within the past few hours become his best buddy.

  “Aint this the life?” Jack said to Jaybird, and demonstrated how he could paddle with his tailprongs and actually scoot around on the surface of the beer, around and around within the confines of the metal tank. Tailprongs normally are sticking up overhead, or rather overtail, but if one is lying on one’s back, belly-up in beer, then they are extending downward into the liquid. Jack hoped his example would inspire Jaybird to paddle around too, but Jaybird wouldn’t do it. He just lay there, floating on his back. Jack dipped a sniffwhip into the brew and splashed Jaybird with it, right in the face, but Jaybird didn’t seem to mind. “Drunk as a wheelbarrow,” Jack observed, although the only wheelbarrow he had seen, across the road in the Lord’s Garden Patch, was a teetotaller.

  Jack studied the ceiling. There was a slot-shaped opening in it, through which poured the first light of dawn. It didn’t bother Jack, but he was vaguely bothered by the memory of having dropped through that slot to reach where he was. That implied, somehow, a problem, though at the moment he couldn’t put his sniffwhips on just what the problem was. He nudged Jaybird. “Hey, Jaybird,” he said. But Jaybird didn’t respond. Jack tickled his face with his sniffwhip. “Come on, Jay, pop out of it,” he urged, and bumped up against Jaybird forcefully, but his friend lay as still as west. West? Jack thought, and began to feel a rising panic.

  He heard a distant voice calling his name. Or calling him by the name he used to have, Jack. Now he was Squire John, but this voice didn’t seem to know that. It was a high-pitched female voice, and Jack tried to identify its owner with his sniffwhips, but all he could pick up on his sniffwhips was the smell of the beer all around him, along with a steadily growing scent of westwardness, the west of the belly-up feller beside him, Jaybird.

  “Jack, whar air ye?” came the voice, again and again, and Jack realized it was Josie.

  He called back, “Josie? I’m down here inside of this beer can!” Soon he saw her face peering down at him from the slot overhead. How had she got up there, to the top of the can? She had no wings. Had someone boosted her up? “Keep back from the aidge!” he cautioned her. “You’ll fall in, too.”

  “What’re ye doin down thar, Jack?” she asked.

  “Jist a-layin here, floatin around and feelin fine,” he declared.

  “You aint drownded, air ye?”

  “Noo, but it ’pears thet ole Jaybird might be.”

  “How did ye git down thar, Jack?”

  “Same way you’re liable to git down here if ye don’t step back,” Jack warned her, but the words were not out of his mouth before he saw her tumbling headlong down into the can. With a gentle splash she landed beside him, and got a snootful of beer.

  “Mmm-mmm,” she purred, licking her mandibles. “This is the real stuff!”

  “Now look what ye’ve done went and done,” he pointed out. “Now we’re both trapped in here.” He had figured the problem out.

  She noticed belly-up Jaybird. “Is he really westered off?” she asked. “That, or he’s drunker’n a fried coot,” Jack said.

  Josie had never seen a fried coot. But she sniffed the distinct odor of westwardness that emanated from Jaybird’s corpse, and she felt both a mingling of sorrow for the westered and a sense of responsibility: she wondered which, if any, of the few edibles stored in her larder she could take to Samantha Coe for the funeral feed. Josie didn’t have a scrap of sweetstuff anywhere in the log, what with her big family, but the other ladies would be sure to bring Samantha a bit of pie or cake or at least cookie for the funeral feed, and Josie would look cheap, as usual. She complained to her husband, “I don’t have a blessit thing to take to the funeral feed.”

  “Lorgamercy, Maw, is thet all ye kin think of, at a time like this?” Jack demanded. “It aint Jaybird’s funeral we’re concerned with. It’s our own, if we caint git out of here.”

  Josie took
another sip of the beer that surrounded her, and wondered how long it would take her, with Jack’s help, to drink all of it. “How deep is this, hon?” she asked.

  “I aint tried to touch bottom,” he declared. “And I aint so certain I’d keer to try.”

  Josie attempted to explain her plan. If they drank all the beer, they couldn’t drown in it.

  “Now thet is real, real clever,” Jack commented with sarcasm, tapping his forehead with a toucher. “But jist think about it a minute. Whar is all the beer we drink gonna go?”

  Josie thought for a minute. “Oh,” she then said. She lapsed into worried silence, and paddled around idly with her tailprongs, but the fun of it rapidly palled. “Jack,” she asked, “kin ye turn right side up?”

  “Maw, I wush ye’d stop callin me ‘Jack.’ You don’t have to call me ‘Squar John’ but at least ‘John’ would be a heap of improvement.”

  “Wal John, if you’re shore enough a Ingledew, you orter be able to turn right side up and spread yore wings and fly out of here.”

  Jack had a vague but pleasant memory of having recently escaped from a Santa Fe by using his wings. It was worth a try. He rolled to one side, and kicked all six of his gitalongs, but could not flip over onto his stomach. “Give me a shove,” he told his wife.

  Josie tried shoving him, to turn him over, but she only succeeded in pushing him across the pool. She pushed him up against the metal wall of the tank, and there, by continued shoving and his own splashing efforts, she was able to turn him right side up. He tried to spread his wings, but they were soaked with beer, and he quickly discovered that he had no buoyancy in this position. He could only float if he was belly-up.

  “Halp!” he cried, and sank.

  “Oh, Lord, save us!” Josie cried out to Man, who was still sound (or unsound) asleep in the back yard. “Climb the wall, Jack!” she begged her husband, and shoved him hard against the aluminum wall, and he scrabbled with his foreclaws and scratched with his hind claws, and clutched with his touchers and thrashed with his tailprongs and lashed with his sniffwhips, but could get no purchase whatever on the smooth metal. All his frantic efforts only had the effect of flipping Josie over onto her stomach, so that she no longer had any buoyancy either.