All the Bells on Earth

by James P. Blaylock

  Even though he was prepared, Bentley was struck dumb by what he saw. The thing that sat in an overstuffed chair next to the fireplace was very nearly Argyle’s twin, dressed again in identical clothing. But there was something coarse about it, something blocky and unfinished. It had a vague, lobotomized look on its face, and its flesh, if it was flesh, was waxy and discolored. The fact that its eyes moved and its mouth twitched made it all the more horrible.

  “What do you think?” Argyle asked. He looked as if he relished the sight of Bentley’s face.

  “Destroy it now,” Bentley said. “I’ll help you do it. Lord knows how, but we’ll do it. Destroy it or go to Hell.”

  “Don’t pass Go, eh? Don’t collect two hundred dollars. Don’t you think it’s an astonishing likeness?”

  Bentley breathed slowly and steadily, trying to compose himself. “It looks like I imagine you’d look after lying dead in a ditch. Can I ask where you got it?” He glanced around the room, looking for something heavy. What would it take to kill a creature that wasn’t alive?

  “China. The Chinese are masters of replication. Do you know that they have carpet factories that will replicate any kind of picture onto a wool carpet?—your mother, a Picasso painting, a jet airplane, anything you want. This is the same sort of thing, after a fashion. A little more mysticism, perhaps. There’s a grand, Kabbalistic tradition to it—several thousand years of mystical mumbo jumbo….”

  “Spare me the details. I’m not an idiot.”

  “All right. Let’s just say that this is another case of the Chinese doing it more cheaply, that’s all. Moderately cheap, anyway—at least the production end of things. Attendant expenses can creep up on you. All they need is a photo, some odds and ends of memorabilia. In my case, a ring, baby shoes, a couple of articles of clothing. It comes to you fully clothed, by the way. When it arrives it’s not so … finely wrought, I guess you’d say, as our friend is now, but its general appearance improves as long as it’s in close association with its master, shares its master’s habits. It even brushes its own teeth.”

  “It’s a filthy abomination,” Bentley said, suddenly wanting to shut him up.

  “Probably it is. I’ll be glad to get it out of here, actually.” The golem shifted in its chair, the expression on its face undergoing sudden changes as if to mimic Argyle’s own phony high spirits. “Of course it’s deficient intellectually,” Argyle said. “I tried to teach it to play Scrabble, but it was no use. I wish I could say it cheated, but it was simply stupid. All in all it’s been a tiresome houseguest: drops food out of its mouth, pisses on the toilet seat—thank heavens it doesn’t smoke, eh?” He chuckled and shook his head almost fondly. “Ah well, I suppose there’s no use complaining, since it’s just about to leave us. It’s bound for a warmer climate, and I suppose it’ll serve in Hell as well as the next man.”

  “Serve?” Argyle spat the word out. “This soulless thing? The Devil wouldn’t want it.”

  “Now, don’t insult my houseguest!” Argyle said. He waggled a finger at Bentley. “And you know absolutely nothing about its soul, such as it is. It has one, actually. It’s lying around here somewhere, locked in a jar.”

  “If you’re talking about Walt Stebbins’s demon,” Bentley told him, “then I think I can assure you that you’ll never get hold of it. It’s beyond your grasp now.”

  “What a dirty shame,” Argyle said, putting his hand to his mouth and widening his eyes. “So you’ve come all the way over here, full of passion, to tell me that I’ve failed?”

  “Worse than failed,” Bentley said.

  “And what would you have me do? Follow George Nelson and Murray LeRoy into that damned alley myself?”

  “Repent!” Bentley shouted at him, suddenly losing his temper.

  The golem abruptly stood up and took a couple of halting steps forward, and Argyle reached over and pushed it solidly on the chest, propelling it backward into its chair again. “You crawling little hypocrite!” he said to Bentley. “You Johnny-come-lately. Your kind is all the same, pointing the self-righteous finger at everyone else while you go around doing what you damned well choose. By God, listen for once! I don’t need your help.I am all the help I need!” He jabbed himself in the chest now. “You can damned well go to Hell, because I’ve got better things to do. Now get out of here.” He pointed toward the door.

  “All right,” Bentley said evenly. “Self-righteous, is it? What about poor Simms? Was he self-righteous too? Is that why you murdered him?”

  “Get out,” Argyle said evenly. “You understand nothing. Simms was an accident. I compensated his widow. If she needs something more …”

  “Compensated!” Bentley shouted. “I’ll show you compensation!” He dropped his Bible onto a tabletop, then bent over and picked up the fireplace poker, slapping it once against his palm. He took a step forward, threw his arm back, and swung the poker hard at Argyle’s head.

  62

  HENRY LOOKED INTO the motor home, through the closed screen door. Jinx worked at the little counter inside, putting together a couple of sandwiches. There was a jar of mayonnaise out, lettuce, sliced ham…. She caught sight of him, stared for a moment, then leaned toward the door and said, “Don’t stand out in the drizzle, for heaven’s sake. Come on in. I’m making lunch.”

  Henry nodded, pulling open the screen and climbing the steps. Jinx had a space heater going inside, and so keeping the door open was a waste of energy, except that both of them liked the rain, especially the sound and the smell of it. A long time ago they had come to the mutual decision to waste the damned energy when they felt like it. How many rainy days did they have left, after all?

  He sat down at the table and watched the street. He was speechless, thinking about this, about how he and Jinx had come to share this attitude about the rain. They’d driven just about every highway in the western United States in their day—slept in parking lots, eaten in diners; Jinx had a thimble collection from everywhere, hundreds of thimbles, porcelain and copper and pewter. Every one of them contained a memory, too, like a little cup—that’s what Jinx said; those were her own words. And now she’d been to see Goldfarb.

  “You’re quiet this afternoon,” she said. She wasn’t giving anything away. He couldn’t read her face.

  “Yes,” he said, “I guess I am.”

  “What’s wrong? Are you eating that bran cereal that I bought?”

  “Oh, yes,” he said, waving away any thought to the contrary.

  “Well, here’s a sandwich. Did you want sprouts on it, or lettuce?”

  “I don’t guess I want any sprouts.”

  She put the sandwich on a plate along with a couple of lettuce leaves and slid it in front of him, then sat down opposite him with her own sandwich. He took a bite and chewed on it without any interest, and then shoved the plate away.

  “All right,” she said, “what’s eating you? You look like a lost soul.”

  “I saw the mail,” he said. “You’ve been to see Goldfarb.”

  “Yes, I certainly have.” She looked at him curiously.

  He shook his head at her, trying to find the right words. “Whatever she … whatever they told you, it was a lie.”

  “Was it?” she asked, putting her own sandwich down. “How much of it was a lie?”

  “All of it. I didn’t touch that woman. You can ask Walt or Bentley; either one of them will tell you. She’s a damned extortionist. She’ll say anything at all, anything. I wish to God I’d never …”

  “Who is she, exactly? Not one of the lunchwagon women again?”

  “No, she’s not one of the lunchwagon women. You know her, actually. Maggie Biggs. She used to run the Eastern Paradise restaurant out on King Street in Honolulu back when we were in the Kahala bungalow.”

  Jinx squinted at him. “Who?”

  “Short woman? Hair …” Henry gestured with his hands to illustrate Maggie Biggs’s hair.

  “Hair?” Jinx said, nodding her head and pursing her lips. “That t
oo …” Then suddenly she broke into a smile. “What are you talking about?” she asked.

  “Don’t mock me,” Henry said, shaking his head at her. “For God’s sake, don’t play dumb. You’ve seen Goldfarb. We both know that. I’m trying to clear the air. What I’m telling you is that there was no reason for you to talk to Goldfarb. Not any reason. I … I love you like … like …” He realized that she was gaping at him. “Like I don’t know,” he said. “I guess I’m a damned fool.” He got up and turned toward the door, taking his hat off the peg and reaching for his coat.

  “Now where are you going?” she asked. Her voice didn’t have any amusement in it any more.

  “Walk,” he said.

  “Now? In the rain?”

  He shrugged. “I guess I just don’t know.”

  “Henry, I called Mr. Goldfarb about the children.”

  “Which children?” he asked, not grasping this.

  “Why, Nora and Eddie. What other children are there?”

  “You called Goldfarb about Nora and Eddie? Why? What did they do?”

  “They didn’t do anything. Sit back down, for goodness sake, and I’ll tell you about it. Walt and Ivy are in a dead panic about that damned Jack, and so I took it upon myself to find out what’s what. That’s why I called Mr. Goldfarb. So I don’t know anything about any woman with hair like you’ve described. You’ve quit seeing her, then?”

  “I never was seeing her. That’s what I’ve been telling you.”

  “Good. I never much liked her anyway. She was too brash. I remember she used to sit on a stool at the end of the counter and order the little Filipino waitresses around. So I’m glad you haven’t been seeing her. Who else haven’t you been seeing?” She narrowed her eyes.

  “Why, I haven’t been seeing anybody else,” he said, puzzled.

  “That’s good,” she said. “Neither have I. I don’t want to; do you know why?”

  He looked at her for a moment, trying to puzzle her out. She was apparently serious.

  “Because I love you too,” she said. “Just like you love me.”

  He nodded at her. “Good,” he said. “That’s good. And I do love you, too.”

  “I know you do,” she said. “Now sit down and eat your sandwich.”

  63

  ARGYLE THREW HIS up and stumbled backward, grunting as the poker whistled past his face. Bentley whirled around and lunged at the golem, slashing at the thing’s neck. The heavy iron head of the poker sank into its flesh as if into wet clay. Bentley wrenched it free and threw the weapon back for another blow, but just then Argyle slammed into his back, wrapping his arms around Bentley’s shoulders and grabbing the shaft of the poker, wrenching it hard.

  Bentley stumbled forward, clamping his free hand onto the heavy end of the poker, cranking it around like he was steering a bus and pulling Argyle off-balance. “No!” he shouted, but Argyle held on, falling to one knee. Bentley stomped hard on his ankle and twisted the poker again, yanking it free, then stepped back and kicked Argyle in the small of the back. “That’s for Simms!” he shouted, whipping the poker behind his back with both hands now, as if he’d take Argyle’s head off with it. He skipped forward and swung it hard, pulling it short again, scaring the bastard away. Argyle yelped, going over backward and knocking over a small table, scuttling away on his hands and knees, heading around behind a stuffed chair, where he stood up, waving both hands to ward off Bentley.

  “Put it down!” Argyle shouted. “For God’s sake … !”

  “Burn the church down, eh?” Bentley yelled, full of a wild rage, and he smashed a potted palm, hacking it to smithereens with the poker. Dirt and leaves flew in the air, raining down on the golem, and Bentley skipped across and hammered a vase on the fireplace mantel, then pounded the hell out of a table lamp, flattening the lampshade and smashing its porcelain base. He took aim at a piece of bird statuary, knocked a flamingo’s porcelain head flying, and then lunged without warning toward Argyle again, stabbing the end of the poker into the chair that stood between them, tearing a long gash in the material and yanking out a big wad of stuffing.

  Argyle made a sideways move, as if to run, and Bentley drove the poker downward like a saber and lunged in at him again, swinging his weapon in a wild tumult of blows as if he were knocking down an army. Argyle retreated into a far corner, his arms in front of his face, and without an instant’s hesitation Bentley spun around and rushed the golem again, intending this time to finish it off. He swung the poker savagely, catching the monster full in the face as it attempted now to stand up out of its chair, its expression an eerie mixture of idiot confusion and of Argyle’s own fear and hatred.

  Bentley saw the poker drive into the thing’s mouth and nose, saw a piece of its waxy flesh tear loose, heard the noise that came out of the thing’s throat. It jerked backward, perhaps from the force of the blow, perhaps to escape, and sat down hard on the arm of the chair, then slumped onto the seat, resting its disfigured head against the cushion. There was no expression in its face now, only vacancy, but somehow that made things even worse, and Bentley was suddenly full of horror at what he’d done.

  He stood there panting, drained of energy, holding the poker loosely in his hand. It was over. He felt degraded, monstrous, and for a moment he was nearly sick. He hadn’t killed it. Probably he couldn’t kill it. Its eyes wandered around the room as if it didn’t quite know where it was, and it made a noise, a breathy, rapid whimper. Bentley had simply worked out his anger on it. In his mind it had been Argyle himself that had taken the beating. He wondered abruptly if the golem could feel pain. Surely not.

  “Get out,” Argyle said to him, his voice croaking out of him like the voice of a strangled man. Bentley turned around, dropping the poker in surprise at what he saw. Blood ran out of Argyle’s nose and from a cut on his lip, and there was a heavy red welt across his neck. Stigmata, Bentley realized. Mirror images of the golem’s own wounds.

  Full of self-loathing, Bentley groped for something to say, something to justify himself. Before whom? Argyle? God? He gestured at the golem, which lay in the chair like a dead man, its throat caved in, its face mutilated. ‘I didn’t mean …”

  “I don’t care what you meant,” Argyle told him, smearing his bloody face with his hand. He looked at the stain on his palm. His hand trembled violently. His voice was wheezy and labored, and he coughed and tilted his head back as if to open his throat. “Understand me when I say that I’m indifferent to you. Just go now. Go on. Get out. Get out. Get out.” He waved both his hands, wrists turned downward, as if to sweep Bentley out of the room, out of his life. Something had come into his eyes, almost a glow, as if in the taste of his own blood he savored his victory, his imminent success.

  Bentley stepped across to the door. He was deflated, utterly fatigued. Argyle hadn’t defeated him—he saw that clearly—he had defeated himself. He felt sickened and ashamed. The act of hurting the golem had humanized it in some odd, backhanded way. He felt as if he’d beaten a dumb beast, a cow or a sheep.

  Pushing the door open, he stepped out onto the porch. Without looking back he descended the steps, out from under the porch roof and into a heavy drizzle. Right then something struck him hard in the small of the back, and he grunted and stumbled forward. It was his Bible. Argyle had thrown it at him.

  Slowly he bent over to pick it up off the wet concrete. He steeled himself and turned around, reminding himself that the book was none the worse for wear, that Argyle couldn’t hurt it. He opened his mouth to speak, to redeem …

  But the door slammed shut, hard enough so that the entire front of the house shook on its foundation. Bentley stood looking at it for a moment, then turned around and walked toward the street, standing by his car for a minute before getting in, looking up at the rainy evening sky.

  Mahoney wanted Bentley to go shelling with him tomorrow morning at dawn, rain or shine, and Bentley had told him that he didn’t have time for it—too many duties, too much work. Well, suddenly he was ready
for it. He couldn’t remember how long it had been since he had gone anywhere merely for pleasure. What he needed right now was air—ocean air, brisk enough to blow the moths out of his coat. And according to Mahoney, there was no telling what you’d find on the beach after a storm.

  64

  IVY FOUND ARGYLE at his desk in his business office. He wore a turtleneck sweater, and he sat and stared with his hands folded in front of him, apparently in a contemplative mood. She carried the manila envelope full of the Batavia property paperwork. “You’ve hurt yourself,” she said, seeing that his lip and cheek had been cut open. The wound was held shut with three butterfly Band-Aids.

  “Golfing accident.” He gestured at the office chair and beamed at her, as if suddenly full of zip. “I can’t tell you how happy I am that you’ve come to me today.”

  She stopped herself from pointing out how idiotic this sounded, how full of vanity, and instead she sat down and waited for him to go on.

  “Everything is absolutely sailing along with the properties. They’re rushing the loan papers; escrow’s already moving. We could close in no time. Mr. Peetenpaul is extremely happy.”

  “I dare say he is.”

  “Now,” Argyle went on, winking at her, “I’ve got a little surprise for you.”

  “What’s that?” She kept her voice even.

  “I’d like to advance you half the commission right now, if you don’t mind, just to start sewing things up. How’s that with you? Do you mind half the money now? No added tax burden, is there, if you get it before the first of the year?”

  “No,” she said, standing up and wandering over to the window. “I don’t think it’ll have any effect on taxes at all.” She saw that Murray LeRoy’s property was dug to pieces now, areas cordoned off with yellow plastic tape flipping and dancing in the wind. A generator chugged away under a plastic awning, pumping muddy rainwater out of a hole, but she couldn’t see any workmen or watchmen around the premises, and there was no longer any sign of earth-moving equipment. By this time next year the place would be up in condominiums, which was a shame.