Love you, too, Julius, he said to the scowling image of his boss that floated about the trees; you goddamned ape.
He walked aimlessly for several blocks, listening to his breathing and the slap of his loafers on the pavement.
He blamed his temper, and Felicity's, on the sodden blanket heat.
Just as he blamed their winter's arguments on the brittle, dry cold.
He counted himself lucky he was not drinking; he wished his son home for someone to talk to; he wanted very much, and suddenly, not to be so predictably faithful that he had to refuse to accept the none-too-subtle blandishments of Carole Neuman across the street, who seemed to be spending more time lately vamping him than she did making dinner for her husband.
Just one quick tumble, he thought, almost wistfully; get hold of those boobs and ride those hips... just one. Just one. And he smiled ruefully as he kicked at a stone and watched it scuttle into the gutter. Guilt. There would be too much guilt. And though his affection for his wife might not always recall those earlier Hollywood-romantic days of drifting gently on the Seine, there was still something... something he could not quite name, though he would never call it love.
Another car, and he blinked, rubbed the heels of his hands against his eyes, and saw himself standing in front of Schiller's house. Then, glancing down, he shuddered when he realized the darkness beneath his feet just might be the bloodstains left from the setter. The thought propelled him without thinking through the unlatched gate and up to the door, had him knocking before he knew what he was doing. And before he could turn around, Cal was peering through the screen door and grinning.
He was tall, stooped as a man might be who had carried the height for a decade too long, with a head of blinding white hair that Art had once claimed had to have come from a bottle somewhere. His face, despite the age it proclaimed, was full, his eyes squinting, and his pale lips worked soundlessly for a few moments as he considered.
"Art? That you, Art?" Such astonishment in anyone else would have been close to insulting.
"Me, Cal. Just... you know, just walking around it's so damned hot. Thought I would drop by and say hello."
Schiller opened the door without hesitating, and Art shrugged a why the hell not? to himself as he stepped over the threshold.
It was hot inside, but a pair of fans on the counter eased the pressure in the kitchen where they sat at a small round table gleaming wetly from a fresh cleaning. A can of Australian beer appeared in his hand. He nodded his thanks and took several full svvallows to fill in the suddenly uncomfortable silence.
"It's been a while, Art/' Schiller said. His voice was high, thin, a reed waiting for the wind to snap it.
"Couple of weeks, I guess, yeah." He took another drink, another, and passed the cold can over his forehead.
Calvin shrugged. "Could be worse."
Art finished the can—nearly a full quart—and there was another in front of him before he could refuse.
"What can I do for you?”
He didn't know what to say, but he said it anyway: "Cal, we're not exactly brothers under the skin and all that, and I don't want you to take offense—"
"None taken, Art. You must know me well enough for that, anyway, right?"
"—but I can't..."He inhaled deeply. Felicity, he knew, would kill him when she found out. His smile was weak, though it pretended to be hearty. "Look, this is silly, Cal, but... y'know, I can't help seeing all those toys out there every day when I go to work. Now, my wife says it's none of my business, and perhaps it isn't, but... ah, damnit!"
Calvin chuckled, his hands cupped loosely around a beer can and rolling it slowly. "It really isn't your business, you know," he said, not unkindly. Then his grin became mischievous. "But it is damned curious, isn't it."
Art looked at him and away, wondering if he should smile, wondering further if this cadaverous old man were mocking him behind that squint. Finally, he nodded.
"Thing is," the old man said, "they're for my little darlin's."
"Oh?"
"Yep."
"You mean, grandchildren, something like that?"
Calvin smiled again. "Grandchildren?" He leaned back in his chair and look heavenward. "Lord, no! My God, no!" He scratched at one barely shaven cheek. "No, just those little darlin's that come around now and again, off and on, you know how it is. Milk and cookies, a few hours on the slides and swings, and home again.
Sometimes they come back, sometimes they don't. Ellie Nedsworth down the street there, she sends over her grandnieces and such when they come up from Jersey. Can't stand them around the house, she says. I keep 'em out of her hair. Mrs. Heidleman—the one what lost her daughter last winter?—she has seven grandchildren and hates every last one of them. She should, believe me. And especially this time of year. You know how it is—the heat makes them restless. Sometimes you can't control them."
Art thought of his son at that age and nodded.
"Course, what with them stupid animals having to up and die right in my front yard almost..." The old man shook his head. "Poor old Ellie, she wanted me to rake the sandbox to look for the rest of that fool cat's body. Can you imagine it? Poor old soul. Crazy as a loon."
Art blinked. "A... babysitter." He felt incredibly foolish when Calvin nodded. "You know, Cal, if you knew how I feel right now—“
"No need," Calvin said, waving a generous hand. "No need at all. Look at it this way—if I hadn't those things out there, you wouldn't have come by, we wouldn't talked. I don't have kids here at night, of course. They're all asleep."
"Just the same, that's all pretty damned good of you, you know that, Cal."
"Oh, not at all. A man moves around as much as I have in my life, he likes to get to know the neighborhood. Best way for that is with the kids. Little ones, the way I look at it, are the best introduction."
"You've been to a lot of places, then?"
They opened another round of beer.
"A few," the old man said. "Don't like towns much, you know. A man my age, I don't like to put down roots I can't yank out when I've a mind to. Been all over, now that I think about it. But this place, the Station, I surely would hate to leave it. Best little place in the country to my way of thinking."
Art nodded his agreement, and they drank in silence while he stared unseeing through the screen door at the back. Then his hand froze as it lifted still another new can to his lips. One of the swings was moving, as if someone had just jumped off. He half rose, almost pointed, then shook his head. Probably some teenager cutting through the yard. Squirrel. The wind. He brushed a hand back through his sandy hair and spent the next hour talking about nothings from baseball to his job. And when it was done—at a signal he did not recognize—he found himself standing on the sidewalk, on the other side of the gate. He looked around the yard; the toys were gone, the sandbox still covered.
But the wind...
"Arthur," he told himself, his words carefully spaced after a long satisfying belch, "you have too many beers on not enough food on a night that's too damned hot. Go home, idiot, and sin no more."
His voice sounded hollow, the words inane, and his temper barely stirred when he saw thin blanket and pillow on the family- room sofa.
The next day began badly: Felicity was still in bed when he left for work; Delarenzo announced that all salaries would be frozen for at least ten months because of the recession; his secretary announced she was quitting at the end of the month to get married; and his son called from New York to say he did not like college anymore, was considering dropping out, and did his father have any contacts in the city so he could get himself a job.
Felicity saved him from murdering the next living creature who walked into the room; she called just before closing and apologized. He apologized. And before she started crying he hung up. Ignored the bus and took a cab from Harley to his front door. Made her dress and took her to dinner at the Chancellor Inn.
Afterward, they made love, with the fan in the bedroom window dro
wning out the noises of the car racers in the street.
Saturday he returned to the office and finished everything he had filed on his desk. He didn't think Delarenzo would notice, but you never knew, he told himself—miracles sometimes do happen. That night Felicity went off to visit her sister on the other side of the village, and after an hour's prowling through the empty house and finding nothing but unpleasant shadows, he left and headed straight for Calvin's.
The old man was surprised.
"Didn't expect you here for another two, maybe three weeks, Art."
Art accepted the gibe with good grace and a shrug, stared out the back door while Calvin fetched the beers; the swings, their chains winking in the light spilling from the house, were still.
The heat shifted in a desultory breeze that died as though the effort was too much to make.
He drank excessively while the old man reminisced, kept looking to the swings, kept frowning... kept drinking. And by the time midnight had come and gone he knew he was going to have a difficult time maneuvering home. Calvin did not seem to notice. Instead, he laughed heartily at Art's wobbling and guided him to the front.
"Take care now," he called from the stoop. "Don't let them monsters get you, hear?" His laugh was a cackling.
Art waved and laughed back, then leaned quickly against the picket fence, swallowing convulsively to keep his stomach from heaving. He spat to rid his mouth of an acrid metallic taste... and saw the sandbox. A hundred years, by God, he thought; it's been a hundred years. He hiccoughed. Belched. Spat again and glanced furtively toward the front door. All the lights were out as far as he could tell, and there was nothing on the road that he could see. Hushing himself, and grinning, he climbed awkwardly over the fence and dropped into a wavering crouch, ran to the house and pressed his back against it. Stupid, he thought; this is really stupid.
He belched.
A few more steps, and he knelt gingerly on the dew-damp grass. The shining red cover was off and folded neatly on the ground. He poked a finger at the grey sand. It was cool. He laid a palm to it. Cool. He plunged his hand under the surface—damp. He piled a handful in the center and jabbed at it, cocked his head and jabbed again. Smoothed. Piled. Angled and smoothed. One last jab, and he hiccoughed. The sound frightened him, and he looked up quickly toward the dark windows overhead, toward the swing set in the backyard.
The plastic seats were moving. All of them. All of them in time.
There was no wind.
He had heard no footsteps.
Moving. In time. Chains creaking faintly.
As steadily as he could, he pushed himself to his feet and hurried to the fence, climbed, swore loudly when a point snagged at his crotch. He shambled off toward home, hoping he would not throw up before he reached the bathroom.
He made it—barely.
Was in bed and pretending deep sleep when Felicity returned.
The next morning she sat with pillows pounded behind her and filled the room with disgust for her sister. When she finally noticed his inattention, however, she glared.
"You look like hell."
He smiled wanly. "I was over at Cal's last night. Damned old man could drink a horse under the table."
"You, I take it, are not a horse."
He fired a finger-and-thumb gun at her.
She sighed. "Do I get the paper, or you?"
He closed his eyes briefly, opened them quickly. "I'd better," he said with a martyr's groan, "or I won't get out until next year."
She kissed him, and he smiled. Five minutes later he was dressed and walking slowly through the early morning haze to the Centre Street luncheonette where the Sunday newspapers were hawked. As he passed Schiller's house he saw Cal kneeling by the sandbox, a small rake in his hand. He called out a greeting, faltered when he saw the dark scowl on the old man's face.
"Trouble?" he asked.
Calvin jabbed angrily at the sand. "This... this is for my little darlin's, Art. They don't like it when someone else plays with their stuff."
He could say nothing. His face tried a series of weak apologies, but there were no words. First there was a rush of shame that he had been seen, then a surge of irrational anger that he had been spied upon. But he decided quickly that neither contrition nor argument was worth the effort—the heat was still simmering, and those so-called little darlin's weren't the only things in town the temperature made restless.
He waved again and moved on.
At the luncheonette he picked up the local paper and the New York Times, and stood patiently in line at the counter while the air conditioning helped to sponge clear his mood and his head. Then Ellie Nedsworth waddled past him with a box of chocolates in her hand, saw him and grinned broadly.
“Art!"
“Lovely day, Ellie."
"Crap," she said. “It's too damned hot." She hefted the five- pound box and looked at it sourly. “Tell you the truth, Art, I wish I had a sister or something in Alaska. I'd walk there on my knees just to feel the cool."
“No kidding," he said, distracted by a headline. “Where does she live, then?"
“Nowhere. Don't have one," she told him, fishing in her purse for the price of the candy. “Just the one fool daughter, and she ain't got the brains to come in out of the rain."
He nodded again dutifully, paid for the newspapers, and froze as his hand was still out for his change. “What?" he said, nearly shouting as he turned toward the door. “What?" But Ellie was gone.
“You what?" Felicity said, her eyes wide and disbelieving.
"You heard me. Ellie Nedsworth has no sister and her daughter isn't married, that's what."
She shook her head and slumped into a chair. “I don't believe you actually asked him about that, Art. I really don't believe it."
“What difference does it make, Fel? I mean, the man lied to me. More than once, as a matter of fact." He ignored the sudden stare. “On the way back I checked around a little. Mrs. Heidleman's grandchildren are all grown and live out of state. No one that I talked to has ever sent their kids to play in Schiller's yard. He lied, Fel. The man lied to me."
After a moment's thought she shrugged. “Okay, so he lied. So what?"
He sat opposite her and took her hands in his. Mysteries. Mysteries and... boredom. “Listen for a minute, Fel. I've been doing some thinking."
“It's the heat," she muttered, but said nothing more when she saw the expression on his face.
“Now bear with me for a minute, all right?" He waited for her to nod. "Okay. Now—the setter, the cat, I think there was a sheepdog' too. Those runaways—two of them, at least, not a sign of them. Schiller told me himself, Fel—he told me—that he hasn't lived in any one place for more than a couple of years at a time. That's right. And do you know why? I'll tell you. Because—"
"No!" she said sharply, pulling her hands back, rubbing them lightly against her jeans. "Now that's just plain idiotic, Art."
Art pressed. "Fel, the man is senile. Crazy. I don't know. But you should have seen him when he found out what I'd done to his precious sandbox." He thought for a moment, one hand pulling at the side of his jaw. "Yeah. Right. The sandbox. You know, it's an awfully damned big sandbox, Fel."
She rose with a slap to the table. "This is... he's crazy? No," she said when he opened his mouth to protest. "No, Art. You just sit there and think about what you just said to me. Think about it, and then..." She lifted her hands helplessly. "I don't know. Just don't mention it again."
When she walked out of the room there were tears in her eyes.
They said little to each other for the rest of the day. And he did not blame her. Cal Schiller of the tricycle and Australian beer a sadistic mass murderer? He may be a little strange here and there, he thought, but... but... it was an awfully damned big sandbox.
He couldn't sleep, and he knew he wouldn't be able to.
He called himself an idiot, a man desperate for adventure, or attention, when he slipped out of the bed; an idiot when he stood in fro
nt of the redwood picket fence; and a goddamned idiot when he climbed over and crept to the side of the house.
The red cover was gone.
The grey sand was smooth, was cool, and when he finally lost his nerve—what had she called him? the Great White Hunter?—and could not bring himself to do any digging, he looked up and saw the shadows on the swings... and the swings were moving.
Jesus, he thought; Schiller's little darlin's.
“Damned fool."
He did not move when the voice spoke behind him. He could not take his eyes off the shadows, off the harsh glints of red, of amber, that could only be their eyes.
Playing in the sand like some fool baby."
The swinging... slowed.
"I told you, son, you shouldn't have touched what just wasn't yours. They don't like that, you know. They get the scent, they just don't like it."
I know, I know, he thought, his legs bunching to run as he rose from his crouch; the heat makes them restless.
Schiller brushed past him, knelt and plunged a hand into the sand, flung a palmful to one side and dug again. Again. Again. The sand like heavy rain on the grass. Art finally looked down, slowly, reluctant to take his eyes from those shadows, those eyes; he looked down and realized there was far too much sand being dumped on the ground for the size of the box that squatted before him.
Schiller sighed, clucked, spat dryly. "Damned fool, you know that, don't you. Hell. It happens every time. Every time. I find the right place they can get out and breathe a little, stretch their muscles, get themselves something to eat, and some damned fool comes along and tries to spoil it for them. Poor little darlin's."
Tales from the Nightside Page 5