All the Bells on Earth

by James P. Blaylock

  “First chance I get,” Argyle said. “And now really, Walt, I don’t want to hold you up. It’s been very nice talking to you.”

  “Maybe I haven’t made myself clear,” Walt said. “This dipshit who murdered Simms …”

  And just then Father Mahoney’s bells started to ring again. It was time for the nightly round of carols. Argyle suddenly looked as if he’d been poleaxed. Walt smiled big at him and put his hand to his ear theatrically. “Hark!” he said. “The tintinnabulation of the bells!”

  Argyle thrust out his hand, pushing Walt solidly in the chest, and Walt backpedaled a step before getting his balance. In that moment the door slammed shut and there was the sound of a dead bolt striking. For a second Walt considered lifting the brass flap on the mail slot and shouting more insults into the interior of the house, but he turned around instead, walking away toward the corner. He glanced back to see if Argyle was watching him, but apparently the creature had slunk back into its den. Tolerably well satisfied, Walt headed for home.

  50

  IVY WAS TALKING to Darla on the telephone. Walt had already talked to her once that evening. She had called earlier to speak to Nora and Eddie. That had been a productive call. Afterward Nora had cried for ten minutes. Now Darla had called back to talk to Ivy again, trying hard to make sense of suddenly finding herself a couple of thousand miles from home. Flying back to Michigan ought to have clarified something, given her life direction, but so far it hadn’t.

  Walt couldn’t puzzle Darla out. She apparently missed the kids so much she could hardly stand it, but she couldn’t come home right now because she needed to “find herself.” Walt imagined her fumbling through coats in a dark closet with a tiny flashlight, certain she was in there someplace. She had a duty as a mother, she had told Walt tearfully, but her first duty was to herself, because if she didn’t love herself, then she couldn’t really love anything, could she? Except of course she had loved Jack, she said, but he turned into a worthless son-of-a-bitch.

  She had carried on this way for ten minutes, weeping like a faucet until Walt had wanted to tell her to shut the hell up. But then it had occurred to him, like a knock on the head, that in some terribly real sense, Darla couldn’t shut the hell up. She couldn’t help herself, not right now. That’s what she was talking about, even if she didn’t quite know it. He had been thinking that she was pretending somehow, that this was all weakness and theater, that if she wanted to she could just cut it out, straighten up and fly right. But what if she wasn’t pretending at all? What if all of it was simply true, and that was the ghastly horror of it? The gulf between what Darla needed and what she possessed was so broad that she couldn’t navigate it, not in the leaky little rowboat she’d put to sea in.

  Maybe the truth was that all of them—himself, the kids, Uncle Henry, Mrs. Biggs, even Argyle—were bailing like sixty, trying to stay afloat in their sorry little tubs.

  “Where?” he heard Ivy ask now. “A chiropractic office? Is it good money?” She nodded, looking at Walt and making a face. “He’s a what? A nutritionist? Not right now, I guess. I don’t think Walt would want any vitamin supplements. How much? I’ll tell him. Okay, sure,” she said. “Take care.” She hung up. “It looks like she’s got a job, but no place to live,” she said to Walt. “If you want, you can subscribe to a line of vitamin supplements. This chiropractor is looking for a west coast rep. You can buy a sales kit for five hundred dollars.”

  “Don’t let her talk to Henry.”

  Ivy rolled her eyes. “She sounds like she’s down in the dumps.”

  “So we’ve got Nora and Eddie for Christmas?”

  “I get the feeling we’ve got Nora and Eddie till further notice, unless we want to hand them over to Jack, which I don’t think we do. Darla tells me that Jack was a little rough with Eddie a few times. That’s what she said, ‘a little rough.’”

  “What does she mean, ‘rough’? Did Jack beat him up?” Walt sat up in bed. He felt his face get hot.

  “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  “Well, then he better not come around here anymore, because if he does I’m going to ask him about it.”

  “What do you mean, ask him?”

  “Simple question before I hit him.”

  “Don’t start fighting with Jack, for God’s sake.”

  Walt didn’t say anything. His mind had descended into a dark place, and he pictured Jack lurching up the front walk toward the house again, making demands. He half wanted the phone to ring right now. Sure, Jack, come the hell on over…. Then step out of the dark with a fist full of dimes and make everything clear to him.

  He realized suddenly that he’d never been this pissed off about anything in his life. Calm down, he thought, don’t have a coronary. His heart was going like sixty.

  “It’s poison to sit there and dwell on this,” Ivy said. “Lie down. We don’t know anything for sure about what Jack did or didn’t do. And it’s not going to help Eddie for you to fly off the handle. If you want to help Eddie, there’s better ways to do it.”

  “I know.”

  “Because Eddie might just depend on you in some way you can’t foresee right now, and if you …”

  “Okay, okay. I’m all right. I’m not going to hunt Jack down and kill him. But I think that if we’re going to do something to fix his hash, we ought to do it. Because if it comes down to it, I’m not sure I care what’s legal and what’s not legal when it comes to Nora and Eddie. I think I could break the law, especially if it meant breaking that bastard’s nose.”

  “Don’t keep thinking about breaking someone’s nose. You’re worked up.”

  “Well, of course I am. It’s the kids. Jack can insult me up one side and down the other and I’ll laugh in his face, but he’s going to damn well leave Nora and Eddie alone.”

  “Listen to you. You’ve gone crazy,” Ivy said. “Head over heels. You’re all of a sudden a sucker for kids. You’ve been handing me this line all this time, being rational, and it turns out you’re custom-built, out-of-your-mind father material.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Take advantage of my better nature. Go ahead. I’m used to it.”

  Ivy switched the light out, and together they pulled the blankets up under their chins. Walt lay there staring at the ceiling, which was faintly illuminated by the light at the bottom of the stairs. They left the light on routinely now, just in case Nora and Eddie had to come up in the middle of the night because of bugs or something.

  Routinely … After three days it was routine? He was already used to that light. How had it happened so quickly?

  “Anyway, I was telling you about the lots over on Batavia?”

  “That’s right,” Walt said. “That went okay?”

  “It was amazing,” Ivy said. “Actually it was pretty weird. Good weird. I was out there looking things over, and this giant man appeared and started measuring the size of the lots.”

  “A giant man?” Walt asked. “How many eyes did he have?”

  “How many eyes? What are you talking about?”

  “I thought maybe he was a cyclops.”

  “He had two eyes. It turned out he’d already made his mind up. He wanted both of the lots. I walked straight into it.”

  “You deserve a little luck,” Walt said. “You work hard.”

  “So do you. We both work hard. And this is our luck, isn’t it?”

  “Sure,” Walt said. “But I’d like to contribute a little bit of it once in a while too. Especially around Christmas.”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself,” she said. “And anyway, Mr. Peetenpaul’s in charge of making Christmas green this year. We can lean on the MasterCard and take care of it later when Mr. Peentenpaul antes up the cash.”

  “Pete ’n Paul?”

  “The giant man who’s buying the lots.”

  “That can’t be his name. He sounds like a Mounds bar.”

  “He’s eaten a few, I think. I guess it’s a Dutch name—all one word, Peetenpaul. He says to
call him Mr. Peet. He’s got this voice like you wouldn’t believe, like he eats sandpaper.”

  “How big?” Walt asked, suddenly suspicious—the size, the voice, the impossible name….

  “I don’t know. A couple inches taller than you, I guess.”

  “Grizzly-looking guy, with a beard? He wasn’t dressed like a postman, was he?”

  “A postman? No. Why do you ask? Why would he be dressed like a postman, for God’s sake?”

  “Nothing. No reason. It sounded like someone I know, that’s all.”

  “You know a giant postman?”

  “Met one recently.”

  “Well, this was no postman. He was driving a pickup truck, but it was new and expensive. He was dressed for the office, too—very stylish for such a big man. I guess you could say he was overdressed.”

  “Like he was playing a role?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Nothing.”

  They lay there in the darkness. Walt listened to the rain ping against the sheet-metal chimney cap. The sound of the droplets radiated down through the flue so that it sounded like it was raining in the bedroom itself.

  “What are you thinking about?” she asked him suddenly.

  “I’m thinking that the Lotto’s sixty million dollars tonight. I’d like to win. I’d spend the money like an idiot.”

  “If our special numbers came up, and you didn’t have a ticket, what would you do?”

  “I dunno. Curse my fate, I guess. Then later I’d tell the story every chance I got. What it would do is turn me into a bore.”

  “You wouldn’t jump out of a window?”

  “Not over money.”

  “Good.” She was silent for a moment. Then she asked, “What would make you jump out of a window?”

  “Shame,” he said, not having to think twice about it. “If I was Jack I’d jump out a window.”

  “If you were Jack, you wouldn’t have any shame.” For a moment she didn’t say anything, then she said, “So did you buy a ticket?”

  “A ticket?”

  “For the Lotto.”

  “Sure,” Walt said. “No quick-pick, just our lucky numbers. You don’t want to dilute your luck when there’s big money on the line.”

  “Good thinking,” she said.

  After another few minutes of silence he realized that Ivy was asleep, her breathing regular and soft. The house was quiet except for the sound of the rain. His thoughts slowly turned in his head, thoughts about winning the Lotto, about found money in a sack. Lots of money. Sixty million iron men. What was that worth, fractioned out over whatever it was—twenty years? He pictured Henry and Jinx back in Honolulu again, decked out in aloha clothes and leis and wearing go-aheads from Long’s Drugs, listening to Don Ho music on a Friday night in Waikiki. Palm trees, trade winds, the scent of flowers on the air….

  Money: what was it but a means to an end? It was a door, wasn’t it? Why treat it like a poisonous snake? You open the door and step through, into Oz or Candyland or somewhere.

  He thought about the bluebird, buried out under the stepping-stone, down in the dirt with the ants and the earthworms. “Sixty bucks,” he whispered. In his mind he made it a wish. It was easier than he thought, just like with the lingerie this afternoon. A thrill ran through him, a shudder.

  That’s all, just the sixty-dollar win. What was that?—four measly numbers in the Lotto? Sixty lousy dollars would just about pay him back for what Mrs. Biggs had taken him for. He wouldn’t be greedy. And it was safe enough for a simple test. The odds against winning it without help were tremendous. The odds of calling your win must be nearly infinitely bad.

  So if he won, he would know, absolutely, and he would resign himself …

  … he would resign himself to making a decision. And you didn’t make that kind of decision unless you were sure of yourself.

  “You’ll ride to the Devil in comfort.”

  He heard Henry’s voice in his mind.

  And then, for no reason at all, he suddenly recalled watching Nora and Eddie say their prayers before going to bed, God-blessing Mr. Argyle along with everyone else.

  How long had it been since Walt had said his prayers?

  He was struck with the uncanny idea that he just had—but to whom?

  He pushed the idea out of his mind, then turned over to go to sleep.

  PART THREE

  All the Bells on Earth

  And all the bells on earth did ring, on Christmas Day in the morning….

  “I Saw Three Ships A-Sailing”

  Traditional Christmas Carol

  51

  MAHONEY AND BENTLEY headed up Shaffer Street toward the Holy Spirit Catholic Church. Bentley was dog-tired. They’d been out since eight o’clock, bell-ringing through the neighborhoods. The wind was blowing hard, and the sky was wild, the clouds torn to pieces by the wind, scattered stars winking and blinking in the clear parts.

  “There’s Orion.” Mahoney pointed his finger at the heavens.

  Bentley looked, but he couldn’t make anything out. “I’ll take your word for it,” he said. “I never could see constellations. I suspect they’re a hoax. I can spot the dipper and the Seven Sisters, which might as well be seven anything—the Seven Santini Brothers.”

  “That attitude’s a pity,” Mahoney said. “Sometimes I imagine they’re celestial seashells arranged on a beach.”

  “That’s real artistic,” Bentley said. “I admire that kind of talk.”

  Mahoney squinted one eye at him and took something out of his pocket. “Nip?”

  “Pardon me?”

  The priest held out a silver pint flask. “Scotch? Little belt after a long night’s work?”

  “No,” Bentley said, waving it away. “Thanks, but I guess not.”

  “Well, fine.” Mahoney tilted a swallow down his throat and put the flask back into his coat. “Teetotaler, eh?”

  “You make it sound like a crime.”

  “You make it sound like a virtue.”

  “Well, it comes tolerably close to being a virtue. But, no, I’m not teetotaler. I used to take a drink now and then, in company.”

  “This liquor,” Mahoney said, tapping the flask with his finger, “is what they call a single malt Scotch.”

  “Don’t patronize me,” Bentley said, listening to their footfalls on the sidewalk. “I know what malt Scotch is.”

  The rain began to fall now, and without saying another word both of them set off jogging toward the church, cutting across the street toward a rear door. Mahoney hauled a key ring out of his pocket and unlocked the dead bolt, letting them both into the sacristy.

  “Man, that’s rain!” Bentley said. Father Mahoney hauled off his dripping trenchcoat and hung it on a peg in the vestibule, then unhitched the bells from around his waist and set them on the desk along with his Benedictus bell. Bentley did the same. The rain poured down outside, drumming against the plywood cutouts that filled the two window arches where the stained glass had been removed for repair. The room smelled of fresh paint.

  “So you’re a Scotch man?” the priest said, sitting down at the desk. He waved at a nearby chair, and Bentley dragged it across and sat down too.

  “Used to be a Scotch man. I’m descended from John Knox.”

  “Is that a fact?” Mahoney said. “The Presbyter himself? Good for you. I’ll take a small drink in honor of your illustrious ancestor despite what we all know about him.”

  “Scourge of the Papists,” Bentley said. “Maybe I’ll take one little blast, in recollection of how your crowd turned a good man into a galley slave.” He took the flask and poured a swallow down his throat, wishing he had something in his stomach.

  Mahoney nodded and took the flask back. “The thing is,” he said, “when you’re using Protestants as galley slaves, you need a lot of them—half a dozen to an oar. Knox wasn’t worth much when it came to real labor. He was mainly a talker.” Mahoney put his feet on the desk and yanked at his collar, loosening it
up.

  “Well, he was a good talker,” Bentley said. “He changed it all, the whole course of human destiny. The whole megillah.”

  “Magilla Gorilla,” Mahoney said, nodding somberly and tasting the Scotch again.

  Bentley took the flask from him, and for a time they sat there in silence, passing it back and forth. Bentley abruptly felt tremendously tired, worn out, and the Scotch had the effect of a hot bath on his muscles. “Here’s to all the people out there,” he said finally, “who are doing the best they damn well can.”

  “Amen,” Mahoney said.

  Bentley felt the whiskey in his guts now, like a living heat, and he moved his shoulders to loosen up.

  “John Knox wore bobby sox,” Mahoney said, giggling.

  Bentley snickered, then glared at him theatrically. Then, in his best Bing Crosby impersonation, he sang, “Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral …” and then cut it off and snickered again. His teeth felt rubbery, and his head was heavy. He turned the flask over and pretended to read something on the bottom. “The Pep Boys,” he said. “Well, I’ll be dipped in a sack of dung, that’s a high-class flask.” He winked, handing it back to Mahoney.

  The phone rang then—two rings, then nothing. Bentley stood blinking at it for a moment, suddenly regretting the Scotch.

  “He’s moving,” Bentley said. He stepped across and switched off the light. The sudden darkness seemed to amplify the sound of the rain, and for a moment neither man spoke. Light from the garden lanterns filtered in through the two remaining windows, casting a dim, rainy shadow onto the linoleum floor.

  “He won’t come here,” Father Mahoney said. “Not as early as this.”

  “Maybe,” Bentley said. “But we ought to be ready for him anyway. He knows we’re moving against him in earnest now. Edna Hepplewhite is staying with Mrs. Simms, up near Pitcher Park. If he turns up Almond, past the park, she’ll …”

  The phone rang again—one ring and then silence.