The Howling Man

by Beaumont, Charles

  "Beat you? Really, do I seem so crude? When have I ever beaten you? No. What are a few little bruises. They disappear and are forgotten. You must be taught a lesson. You must be taught never to play tricks again."

  The hot night air went through the great house and into his body, but when Miss Gentilbelle took his hand in hers, he felt cold. Her fingers seemed suddenly to be made of iron. They hurt his hand.

  Then, in silence, the two walked from the living room, down the vast, dark hail, past the many dirty doorways and, finally, into the kitchen.

  "Now, Roberta," Miss Gentilbelle said, "run up to your room and bring Margaret to me. Instantly."

  He had stopped crying: now he felt ill. Robert knew what his mother was going to do.

  He reached up and clutched her arm. "But--"

  "I shall count up to thirty-five."

  Robert ran out of the room and up the stairs, counting quickly to himself. When he entered his bedroom he went to the small cage and took it from the high shelf. He shook it. The parakeet inside fluttered white and green wings, moved its head in tiny machine movements.

  Twenty seconds had passed.

  Robert inserted his finger through the slender bars, touched the parakeet's hard bill. "I'm sorry, Margaret," he said. "I'm sorry." He put his face up close to the cage and allowed the bird to nip gently at his nose.

  Then he shook the confusion from his head, and ran back downstairs.

  Miss Gentilbelle was waiting. In her right hand was a large butcher knife. "Give Margaret to me," she said.

  Robert gave the cage to his mother.

  "Why do you force me to do these things, child?" asked Miss Gentilbelle.

  She took the parakeet from its cage and watched the bird struggle.

  Robert's heart beat very fast and he couldn't move; but, he did not hate, yet.

  Miss Gentilbelle held the parakeet in her left hand so that one wing was free. The only sound was the frantic fluttering of this wing.

  She put the blade of the knife up close to the joint of the wing.

  Robert tried not to look. He managed to stare away from Margaret's eyes; his gaze held on his mother's hands.

  She held the knife stationary, frozen, touching the feathers.

  Why didn't she do it! Get it over with! It was like the time she had killed Edna, holding the knife above the puppy's belly until-- "And now, when you wish you had your little friend, perhaps you will think twice before you climb trees."

  There was a quick movement, a glint of silver, an unearthly series of small sounds.

  The wing fluttered to the floor.

  "Margaret!"

  The parakeet screamed for a considerable time before Miss Gentilbelle pressed the life from it. When it was silent, as last, the white fingers that clutched it were stained with a dark, thin fluid.

  Miss Gentilbelle put down the butcher knife, and took Robert's hand.

  "Here is Margaret," she said. "Take her. Yes. Now: Shall we mend Margaret?"

  Robert did not answer.

  "Shall we put her together again, glue back her pretty little wing?"

  "No, Mother. Nothing can be mended."

  "Very good. Perhaps you will learn." Miss Gentilbelle smiled. "Now take the bird and throw it into the stove."

  Robert held the dead parakeet gently in his hands, and secretly stroked its back. Then he dropped it into the ashes.

  "Take off your gown and put it in, also."

  As Robert drew off the thin blue nightgown, he looked directly into his mother's eyes.

  "Something you would like to say to me, Roberta?"

  "No, Mother."

  "Excellent. Put in some papers and light them. And when you've finished that, get a rag from the broom closet and wipe the floor. Then put the rag into the stove."

  "Yes, Mother."

  "Roberta."

  "Yes?"

  "Do you understand why Margaret was killed?"

  This time he wanted to say no, he did not understand. Not at all. There was such confusion in his head.

  "Yes, Mother. I understand."

  "And will you climb trees any more when you ought to be in bed?"

  "No. I won't climb any more trees."

  "I think that is true. Good night, Roberta. You may go up to your room, afterwards.

  "Good night, Mother."

  Miss Gentilbelle walked to the sink and carefully washed her hands. She then returned to the living room and put a record on the phonograph.

  When Robert went upstairs, she smiled at him.

  He lay still in the bed. The swamp wind was slamming shutters and creaking boards throughout the house, so he could not sleep. From a broken slat in his own shutter, moonlight shredded in upon the room, making of everything dark shadows.

  He watched the moonlight and thought about the things he was beginning to know.

  They frightened him. The books--The pictures of the people who looked like him and were called boys, and who looked like Miss Gentilbelle and were called girls, or ladies, or women .

  He rose from the bed, put his bathrobe about him, and walked to the door. It opened noiselessly, and when it did, he saw that the entire hallway was streaming with dark, cold light. The old Indian's head on the wall looked down at him with a plaster frown, and he could make out most of the stained photographs and wrinkled paintings.

  It was so quiet, so quiet that he could hear the frogs and crickets outside; and the moths, bumping and thrashing against the walls, the windows.

  Softly he tiptoed down the long hall to the last doorway and then back again to his room. Perspiration began to form under his arms and between his legs, and he lay down once more.

  But sleep would not come. Only the books, the knowledge, the confusion. Dancing. Burning.

  Finally, his heart jabbing, loud, Robert rose and silently retraced his footsteps to the door.

  He rapped, softly, and waited.

  There was no answer.

  He rapped again, somewhat harder than before; but only once.

  He cupped his hands to his mouth and whispered into the keyhole: "Drake!"

  Silence. He touched the doorknob. It turned.

  He went into the room.

  A large man was lying across a bulky, posterless bed. Robert could hear the heavy guttural breathing, and it made him feel good.

  "Drake. Please wake up."

  Robert continued to whisper. The large man moved, jerked, turned around. "Minnie?"

  "No, Drake. It's me."

  The man sat upright, shook his head violently, and pulled open a shutter. The room lit up.

  "Do you know what will happen if she finds you here?"

  Robert sat down on the bed, close to the man. "I couldn't sleep. I wanted to talk to you. She won't hear--"

  "You shouldn't be here. You know what she'll say."

  "Just a little while. Won't you talk a little while with me, like you used to?"

  The man took a bottle from beneath the bed, filled a glass, drank half. "Look here," he said. "Your mother doesn't like us to be talking together. Don't you remember what she did last time? You wouldn't want that to happen again, would you?"

  Robert smiled. "It won't. I don't have anything left for her to kill. She could only hit me now and she wouldn't hit you. She never hits you."

  The man smiled, strangely.

  "Drake ."

  "What?"

  "Why doesn't she want me to talk to you?"

  The man coughed. "It's a long story. Say I'm the gardener and she's the mistress of the house and you're her. . . daughter, and it isn't right that we should mix."

  "But why?"

  "Never mind."

  "Tell me."

  "Go back to bed, Bobbie. I'll see you next week when your mother takes her trip into town."

  "No, Drake, please talk a little more with me. Tell me about town; please tell me about town."

  "You'll see some day--"

  "Why do you always call me 'Bobbie'? Mother calls me Roberta. Is my name B
obbie?"

  The man shrugged. "No. Your name is Roberta."

  "Then why do you call me Bobbie? Mother says there is no such name."

  The man said nothing, and his hand trembled more.

  "Drake."

  "Yes?"

  "Drake, am I really a little girl?"

  The man got up and walked over to the window. He opened the other shutter and stood for a long while staring into the night. When he turned around, Robert saw that his face was wet.

  "Bobbie, what do you know about God?"

  "Not very much. It is mentioned in the George Bernard Shaw book I am reading, but I don't understand."

  "Well, God is who must help your mother now, Bobbie boy!"

  Robert's fists tightened. He knew--he'd known if for a long time. A boy . . .

  The man had fallen onto the bed. His hands reached for the bottle, but it was empty.

  "It's good," the man said. "Ask your questions. But don't ask them of me. Go away now. Go back to your room!"

  Robert wondered if his friend were ill, but he felt too strange to be with anyone. He opened the door and hurried back to his room.

  And as he lay down, his brain hurt with the new thoughts. He had learned many wonderful things this night. He could almost identify the feeling that gnawed at the pit of his stomach whenever he thought of Miss Gentilbelle .

  Robert did not sleep before the first signs of dawn appeared. And then he dreamed of dead puppies and dead birds.

  They were whispering something to him.

  "Why, Roberta," said Miss Gentilbelle, in a soft, shocked voice. "You haven't worn your scent this morning. Did you forget it?"

  "Yes."

  "A pity. There's nothing like the essence of blossoms to put a touch of freshness about everything."

  "I'm sorry."

  "I should be displeased if you were to forget your scent again. It's not ladylike to go about smelling of your flesh."

  "Yes, Mother."

  Miss Gentilbelle munched her toast slowly and looked into Robert's flushed face.

  "Roberta, do you feel quite well?"

  "Yes."

  Miss Gentilbelle put her hand to Robert's forehead. "You do seem somewhat feverish. I think we will dispense with today's lesson in Jeanne d'Arc. Immediately following your criticism on the Buxtehude you will go to bed."

  The breakfast was finished in silence as Miss Gentilbelle read a book. Then they went into the living room.

  Robert hated the music. It sounded in the faded room like the crunch of shoes on gravel, and the bass notes were all dissolved into an ugly roar.

  They listened for one hour without speaking, and Robert moved only to change the records.

  "Now, then, Roberta," Miss Gentilbelle said. "Would you agree with Mr. Locke that Buxtehude in these works surpasses the bulk of Bach's organ music?"

  Robert shook his head. He knew he would have to answer. "I think Mr. Locke is right."

  And then it struck him that he had actually lied before, many times. But perhaps he never knew before that he disliked music.

  "Very good. No need to continue. The facts are self-evident. Go to your room and undress. Dinner will be prepared at twelve-thirty."

  Robert curtsied and began to walk to the stairway.

  "Oh, Roberta."

  "Yes, Mother?"

  "Did you by any chance see Mr. Franklin last night?"

  Robert's throat went dry. It was difficult to hold on to his thoughts. "No, Mother, I did not."

  "You know you should never see that evil man, don't you? You must always avoid him, never speak a word to him. You remember when I told you that, don't you?"

  "Yes, Mother."

  "You disobeyed me once. You would never dream of doing that again, would you, Roberta?"

  "No, Mother."

  "Very good. Retire to your room and be dressed for dinner by twelve."

  Robert went up the stairs slowly, for he could not see them. Tears welled in his eyes and burned them, and he thought he would never reach the top.

  When he went into his room he saw Margaret for a moment and then she was gone.

  He sat on the bed and proceeded to remove his clothes. They were dainty clothes, thin and worn, demanding of great care. He took them off lightly with a touch and looked at each garment for a long time.

  The patent leather shoes, the pink stockings, the pale yellow dress--he laid them neatly on the sofa and looked at them. Then, when all the clothes had been removed, he went to the mirror and looked into it.

  Robert didn't know what he saw and he shook his head. Nothing seemed clear; one moment he felt like shouting and another, like going to sleep. Then he became frightened and leapt into the large easy chair, where he drew his legs and arms about him. He sat whimpering softly, with his eyes open, dreaming.

  A little bird flew out of a corner and fluttered its wings at him. Margaret's wing, the one Miss Gentilbelle had cut off, fell from the ceiling into his lap and he held it to his face before it disappeared.

  Presently the room was full of birds, all fluttering their wings and crying, crying to Robert. He cried, too, but softly.

  He pulled his arms and legs closer to him and wrenched at the blond curls that fell across his eyes. The birds flew at him and around him and then their wings started to fall off. And as they did, the brown liquid he remembered soaked into all the feathers. Some of it got on Robert and when it did, he cried aloud and shut his eyes.

  Then the room seemed empty. There were no birds. Just a puppy. A little dog with its belly laid open, crawling up to Robert in a wake of spilled entrails, looking into his eyes.

  Robert fell to the floor and rolled over several times, his body quivering, flecks of saliva streaming from his lips.

  "Edna, Edna, don't go away."

  The puppy tried to walk further but could not. Its round low body twitched like Robert's, and it made snuffling noises.

  Robert crawled to a corner.

  "Edna, please. It wasn't me, it wasn't, really .

  And then a cloud of blackness covered Robert's mind, and he dropped his head on his breast.

  When he awakened he was in bed and Drake was standing over him, shaking his shoulders.

  "Bobbie, what is it?"

  "I don't know. All of sudden I saw Margaret and Edna and all the birds. They were mad, Drake. They were mad!"

  The man stroked Robert's forehead gently.

  "It's all right. You don't have to be afraid now. You just had a bad nightmare, that's all. I found you laying on the floor.

  "It seemed very real this time."

  "I know. They sometimes do. Why, I could hear you crying all the way down the hall!"

  "She didn't hear me, did she?"

  "No, she didn't hear you."

  Then Robert saw the heavy brown bag. "Drake, why have you got that suitcase?"

  The man coughed and tried to kick the bag underneath the bed. "It's nothing. Just some equipment for the yard."

  "No, no it isn't, Drake. I can tell. You're going away!"

  "It's equipment for the yard, I tell you."

  "Please don't go away, Drake. Please don't. Please Don't."

  The man tightened his fists and coughed again.

  "Now you look, Bobbie. I've just got to go away for a little trip, and I'll be back before you know it. And maybe then we can go off somewhere together. I'm going to find out about it, but you musn't say a word to your mother. Hear?"

  Robert looked up, confused. Something fluttered. He could see it, from the corner of his eye.

  The man was dirty and he smelled of alcohol, but it made Robert feel good when he touched him.

  "Really? You mean us?"

  "Bobbie. You've got to tell me something first. Do you love your mother?"

  He didn't have to think about it. "No, she always kills things, and always hurts things. I don't love her."

  The man spoke under his breath. "I've wanted to do this for a long time."

  Something crawled in a corner. Ro
bert could almost see it. "Drake," he said, "have you ever killed anything?"

  Perspiration stood out on the man's forehead. He answered as if he had not heard.

  "Only once, Bobbie. Only once did I kill."

  "What was it? An animal?"

  "No. It was worse, Bobbie. I killed a human spirit--a soul."

  "Mother does it all the time!"

  "I know. There's been a lot of death in this house ... But here now, lad, are you over your nightmare?"

  Robert tried not to look up.

  "Are we really going away when you get back? Away from Mother and this place, just you and me, Drake? Promise me?"

  "Yes, boy. Yes, we are!"

  The man took Robert's hand in his and held it hard.

  "Now you see here. If she learns of this there'll be a lot of trouble. Something might go wrong. So, whatever you do, don't you let on to her what's happened. I'll see the authorities and tell them everything and you'll get out of here. And we'll be free, you and me, boy!"

  Robert didn't say anything. He was looking at a corner.

  "Bobbie, you're not old enough yet to know everything about your mother. She wasn't always like she is now. And I wasn't, either. Something just happened and. well, I'll tell you about it later so you'll understand. But right now, I want you to do something. After I leave, you get yourself another little pet, a frog or something. Keep it in this room. She'll know nothing's changed, then. She'll know you haven't been talking to me. Get that frog, Bobbie, and I'll be back so that you can have it always as a friend. Always.

  "Goodbye, lad. You'll not be staying with that crazy woman much longer, I promise you."

  Robert smiled and watched Drake go toward the door.

  "Will you really come back, Drake?"

  "Nothing on earth is going to stop me, son. I knew that when I saw you last night; I knew it when you asked me those questions. The first normal things I'd heard for... Yes, son, I'll be back for you."

  Robert did not understand much. Only about the frog. He would find himself a pet and keep it.

  The movement in the corners had stopped, and Robert could think for only a little while before he fell into a sound sleep. So sound a sleep that he did not hear Miss Gentilbelle coming up the stairs and he did not see her face when she stepped into the room.

  "Roberta, you're late. You were told to be downstairs promptly at twelve-thirty and instead I find you resting like a lady of great leisure. Get up, girl!"