The Specialty of the House

by Stanley Ellin

  ‘Right!’ said Bunce. ‘That is the exact idea. And not even J. G. Blessington himself ever phrased it better. You have a way with words, Mr Treadwell. I always admire a man who can come to the point without sentimental twaddle.’

  ‘But you can’t get away with it!’ said Mr Treadwell incredulously. ‘You don’t really believe you can get away with it, do you?’

  Bunce gestured toward the expanses beyond the closed doors. ‘Isn’t that sufficient evidence of the Society’s success?’

  ‘But all those people out there! Do they realize what’s going on?’

  ‘Like all well-trained personnel, Mr Treadwell,’ said Bunce reproachfully, ‘they know only their own duties. What you and I are discussing here happens to be upper echelon.’

  Mr Treadwell’s shoulders drooped. ‘It’s impossible,’ he said weakly. ‘It can’t work.’

  ‘Come, come,’ Bunce said not unkindly, ‘you mustn’t let yourself be overwhelmed. I imagine that what disturbs you most is what J. G. Blessington sometimes referred to as the Safety Factor. But look at it this way, Mr Treadwell: isn’t it perfectly natural for old people to die? Well, our Society guarantees that the deaths will appear natural. Investigations are rare – not one has ever caused us any trouble.

  ‘More than that, you would be impressed by many of the names on our list of donors. People powerful in the political world as well as the financial world have been flocking to us. One and all, they could give glowing testimonials as to our efficiency. And remember that such important people make the Society for Gerontology invulnerable, no matter at what point it may be attacked, Mr Treadwell. And such invulnerability extends to every single one of our sponsors, including you, should you choose to place your problem in our hands.’

  ‘But I don’t have the right,’ Mr Treadwell protested despairingly. ‘Even if I wanted to, who am I to settle things this way for anybody?’

  ‘Aha.’ Bunce leaned forward intently. ‘But you do want to settle things?’

  ‘Not this way.’

  ‘Can you suggest any other way?’

  Mr Treadwell was silent.

  ‘You see,’ Bunce said with satisfaction, ‘the Society for Gerontology offers the one practical answer to the problem. Do you still reject it, Mr Treadwell?’

  ‘I can’t see it,’ Mr Treadwell said stubbornly. ‘It’s just not right.’

  ‘Are you sure of that?’

  ‘Of course I am!’ snapped Mr Treadwell. ‘Are you going to tell me that it’s right and proper to go around killing people just because they’re old?’

  ‘I am telling you that very thing, Mr Treadwell, and I ask you to look at it this way. We are living today in a world of progress, a world of producers and consumers, all doing their best to improve our common lot. The old are neither producers nor consumers, so they are only barriers to our continued progress.

  ‘If we want to take a brief, sentimental look into the pastoral haze of yesterday we may find that once they did serve a function. While the young were out tilling the fields, the old could tend to the household. But even that function is gone today. We have a hundred better devices for tending the household, and they come far cheaper. Can you dispute that?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Mr Treadwell said doggedly. ‘You’re arguing that people are machines, and I don’t go along with that at all.’

  ‘Good heavens,’ said Bunce, ‘don’t tell me that you see them as anything else! Of course, we are machines, Mr Treadwell, all of us. Unique and wonderful machines, I grant, but machines nevertheless. Why, look at the world around you. It is a vast organism made up of replaceable parts, all striving to produce and consume, produce and consume until worn out. Should one permit the worn-out part to remain where it is? Of course not! It must be cast aside so that the organism will not be made inefficient. It is the whole organism that counts, Mr Treadwell, not any of its individual parts. Can’t you understand that?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Mr Treadwell uncertainly. ‘I’ve never thought of it that way. It’s hard to take in all at once.’

  ‘I realize that, Mr Treadwell, but it is part of The Blessington Method that the sponsor fully appreciate the great value of his contribution in all ways – not only as it benefits him, but also in the way it benefits the entire social organism. In signing a pledge to our Society a man is truly performing the most noble act of his life.’

  ‘Pledge?’ said Mr Treadwell. ‘What kind of pledge?’

  Bunce removed a printed form from a drawer of his desk and laid it out carefully for Mr Treadwell’s inspection. Mr Treadwell read it and sat up sharply.

  ‘Why, this says that I’m promising to pay you two thousand dollars in a month from now. You never said anything about that kind of money!’

  ‘There has never been any occasion to raise the subject before this,’ Bunce replied. ‘But for some time now a committee of the Society has been examining your financial standing, and it reports that you can pay this sum without stress or strain.’

  ‘What do you mean, stress or strain?’ Mr Treadwell retorted. ‘Two thousand dollars is a lot of money, no matter how you look at it.’

  Bunce shrugged. ‘Every pledge is arranged in terms of the sponsor’s ability to pay, Mr Treadwell. Remember, what may seem expensive to you would certainly seem cheap to many other sponsors I have dealt with.’

  ‘And what do I get for this?’

  ‘Within one month after you sign the pledge, the affair of your father-in-law will be disposed of. Immediately after that you will be expected to pay the pledge in full. Your name is then enrolled on our list of sponsors, and that is all there is to it.’

  ‘I don’t like the idea of my name being enrolled on anything.’

  ‘I can appreciate that,’ said Bunce. ‘But may I remind you that a donation to a charitable organization such as the Society for Gerontology is tax-deductible?’

  Mr Treadwell’s fingers rested lightly on the pledge. ‘Now just for the sake of argument,’ he said, ‘suppose someone signs one of these things and then doesn’t pay up. I guess you know that a pledge like this isn’t collectible under the law, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Bunce smiled, ‘and I know that a great many organizations cannot redeem pledges made to them in apparently good faith. But the Society for Gerontology has never met that difficulty. We avoid it by reminding all sponsors that the young, if they are careless, may die as unexpectedly as the old … No, no,’ he said, steadying the paper, ‘just your signature at the bottom will do.’

  When Mr Treadwell’s father-in-law was found drowned off the foot of East Sconsett pier three weeks later (the old man fished from the pier regularly although he had often been told by various local authorities that the fishing was poor there), the event was duly entered into the East Sconsett records as Death by Accidental Submersion, and Mr Treadwell himself made the arrangements for an exceptionally elaborate funeral. And it was at the funeral that Mr Treadwell first had the Thought. It was a fleeting and unpleasant thought, just disturbing enough to make him miss a step as he entered the church. In all the confusion of the moment, however, it was not too difficult to put aside.

  A few days later, when he was back at his familiar desk, the Thought suddenly returned. This time it was not to be put aside so easily. It grew steadily larger and larger in his mind, until his waking hours were terrifyingly full of it, and his sleep a series of shuddering nightmares.

  There was only one man who could clear up the matter for him, he knew; so he appeared at the offices of the Society for Gerontology burning with anxiety to have Bunce do so. He was hardly aware of handing over his check to Bunce and pocketing the receipt.

  ‘There’s something that’s been worrying me,’ said Mr Treadwell, coming straight to the point.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, do you remember telling me how many old people there would be around in twenty years?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Mr Treadwell loosened his collar to ease the constric
tion around his throat. ‘But don’t you see? I’m going to be one of them!’

  Bunce nodded. ‘If you take reasonably good care of yourself there’s no reason you shouldn’t be,’ he pointed out.

  ‘You don’t get the idea,’ Mr Treadwell said urgently. ‘I’ll be in a spot then where I’ll have to worry all the time about someone from this Society coming in and giving my daughter or my son-in-law ideas! That’s a terrible thing to have to worry about all the rest of your life.’

  Bunce shook his head slowly. ‘You can’t mean that, Mr Treadwell.’

  ‘And why can’t I?’

  ‘Why? Well, think of your daughter. Mr Treadwell. Are you thinking of her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you see her as the lovely child who poured out her love to you in exchange for yours? The fine young woman who has just stepped over the threshold of marriage, but is always eager to visit you, eager to let you know the affection she feels for you?’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘And can you see in your mind’s eye that manly young fellow who is her husband? Can you feel the warmth of his handclasp as he greets you? Do you know his gratitude for the financial help you give him regularly?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Now, honestly, Mr Treadwell, can you imagine either of these affectionate and devoted youngsters doing a single thing – the slightest thing – to harm you?’

  The constriction around Mr Treadwell’s throat miraculously eased; the chill around his heart departed.

  ‘No,’ he said with conviction. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Splendid,’ said Bunce. He leaned far back in his chair and smiled with a kindly wisdom. ‘Hold on to that thought, Mr Treadwell. cherish it and keep it close at all times. It will be a solace and comfort to the very end.’

  The Faith of Aaron Menefee

  When the big black car came limping into the gas station I could tell that it was hurting inside, the way I hurt whenever the old hot-spot jabbed into my belly. There was a chauffeur driving, and three people sitting in back: a discontented-looking girl and a weasel-like fellow, and in between them this man with the red face and the shock of gray hair. They all got out to look while I poked into the motor.

  ‘It’s the carburetor,’ I told them. ‘Seems like it was just worked on, but whoever did it made a mess of it.’

  The red-faced man gave the chauffeur a look like a thundercloud coming up over old Turtleback Mountain.

  ‘How long will it take to fix?’ he said to me. ‘And I mean a real good job on it. I’ve got to be in Cincinnati by early evening, and there’s still forty miles to go. I don’t aim to break down on the way again.’

  ‘I’ll fix it while you wait,’ I said. ‘As for the kind of job it’ll be, you ask anyone around here, and they’ll tell you that if it’s a machine made by man and run by gas, Aaron Menefee’ll fix it right.’

  He looked around at the empty road. ‘Don’t seem to be many around here to ask,’ he said, and then he laughed so that you had to like him on the spot. ‘All right, Brother Menefee,’ he said, ‘it’s my feeling that most folks are honest and willing. I’ll put my trust in you.’

  It took a little longer than I figured, but I finally had the motor tuned up and idling, sweet as a kitten purring. The red-faced man looked happy about that. When I told him the price he looked even happier. ‘Brother Menefee,’ he said, ‘you’ve just boosted my high opinion of the human race one more notch.’

  And then it happened. And it happened in a way that I know was meant. Just as he was handing me the money, the old hot-spot caught me a lick so fierce that I had to double over and hold my breath until the feeling eased up.

  ‘What is it?’ the man said. ‘What’s wrong?’

  I felt ashamed at making such a fuss in front of people. ‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘Leastways, nothing that can be helped. Doc Buckles says it’s an ulcer, and I’m on milk, potatoes, and prayer to heal it, but it looks like it’s here to stay.’

  He was interested. Not the way most people are just glassy-eyed polite, but deep-down concerned. He looked at me from head to foot, and then he made a fist of one hand and beat it into the other a couple of times. Then he walked right around me as if he were measuring me for a suit of clothes, and the others just stood there and watched us.

  ‘Brother Menefee,’ he finally said, ‘you don’t know who I am, do you?’

  ‘I guess I don’t.’

  ‘Well, brother, my name is Otis Jones. Healer Jones, they call me. Did you ever hear of that name?’

  ‘I guess I never did.’

  ‘You mean, you never followed my Faith Meetings on radio or TV? But I’m coast to coast, brother. Two hundred radio stations’ and eighty TV stations’ worth of coast to coast each and every Wednesday night of the year!’

  ‘Maybe so,’ I said, ‘but I don’t bear with radio and TV. From what I hear there’s a load of sinful stuff on ’em. Stuff about women and drinking and killing and such. A man’s got to work hard enough fighting down the old Adam in him without looking on such temptations.’

  ‘There’s no sin and temptation on my program, brother. All they show is the meetings where I carry on the work the Almighty empowered me to do. What work, you ask? Healing, brother – healing! In this right arm here is the power to lift the sick from their beds, take the crutches from the maimed so that they can walk again, and restore a man to all the good fortune he can ask for on this everlasting earth! Do you have faith, brother?’

  ‘I have faith,’ I said. ‘I’ve mortified the flesh, I’ve prayed until my knees were skinned raw, and I’ve still got faith to spare.’

  ‘Good. Because if you’ve got faith my power can take hold of you and cure you. If not, you’re just fooling yourself. Here, take hold of my hand, and see if you don’t feel the power just pouring into you. See if it don’t happen.’

  I took his hand, and, sure as I was standing there, old hot-spot started to settle down as if it felt a couple of Doc Buckles’ pills working on it. That was when I knew it had all been meant. The way he picked that old highway to travel, the car breaking down, and my being right on the spot with old hot-spot set up to act up worse than usual.

  He must have known it was meant, too. He said, ‘You’ve got faith, brother. Tonight, you come to my Faith Meeting in Cincinnati, and I’ll turn all my power on you, and heal you from this day henceforth. My daughter here’ll give you a card with the address, and I’ll expect to see you there, cleansed and ready. And pass the word along, brother. All are welcome, faithful and scoffers alike.’

  I took the seven o’clock bus to Cincinnati – sixty cents’ worth of riding each way – and got there just before meeting time. It was like nothing I had ever seen before – bigger than the circus and a lot more gratifying to the soul. A monstrous tent, white as snow, was pitched in the middle of the grounds with people swarming in from every direction. Ten big trailer trucks which, I figured, were used to carry the equipment for the meeting, stood in a line off to one side. Two other trucks were rigged up with power plants, and one of them had a spotlight on it which sent a beam straight up into the sky like a fiery sword.

  I bought a hymn book for a dime on the way into the tent, and when I was sitting there in the middle of maybe ten thousand people, I looked into it and found a card which said to fill out your name and address and infirmity and turn it in to an usher, so you could be called for healing right at the meeting. I did that, and then I joined in with the rest, and we sang some hymns from the book, with the Healer’s daughter leading us in a nice sweet soprano from the platform up front. They were all good hymns, too. The kind to twist old Satan’s arm behind his back and bring him howling to his knees.

  It was after this that lights came on so bright in the tent that you had to blink your eyes against them. That was for TV, sure enough. You could see the two big cameras, one aimed at the platform and one at us in the seats, with men waiting at them. And as soon as those lights came on, the Healer walked out on the p
latform, moving slow and easy, his hands out in greeting, a king among men, but a good, plain man himself for all that, you could tell.

  He didn’t waste any time; he exhorted us right from the beginning, and so hard that first he opened his necktie, then he pulled off his coat, and then you could see the honest sweat dripping off his face and coming out in big splotches on his shirt. It is good to see a man sweat like that; you know he means what he says, and he is working hard to get it across.

  Mostly it was about how faith had led him to his power, and how faith would lead us to our cure, and when he came to the part where he told how right in a little back room of the Rocky Heights First National Bank where he was clerking for miserable pay, and sick and ailing at that, he had dropped to his knees and felt the power seize him, it was enough to make a lot of the folks around me shout and groan and carry on in their joy for him.

  Then came the healing. The little weasel-like fellow who the Healer said to us was Charles M. Fish, his manager, stood on the platform and read off the names on the cards, while one by one we marched down to take our turn. When it came my turn, and I had to walk down that aisle with everyone craning to see, and that big glass eye of the TV camera staring at me, I felt my knees would buckle under me before I made it.

  But I did make it, and there I stood at the foot of the platform with the Healer on his knees just above me, a microphone in his hand.

  ‘Brother,’ he said into it, and when I heard his voice booming out in the tent behind me I almost jumped, ‘what is your affliction?’

  He held the microphone at me, and I said, ‘Ulcers.’

  ‘Did you hear that?’ the Healer yelled at the crowd. ‘This big, good-looking young man in the prime of his life is being eaten alive by a sickness that defies man’s medicine, cursed by a fiery torment licking at his vitals day and night – and yet he has faith to stand before me and seek deliverance! Do you think he can be healed?’

  ‘Yes!’ everyone yelled back at him. ‘He can be healed!’

  The Healer mopped the sweat from his face and looked down at me. ‘Do you think you can be healed, brother?’