by T E. D Klein
"Is there a table of contents?" asked Milton. His wife nodded.
"Look up The Sloth. Or better yet, The Beast."
"It reminds me of that Maine folk tale," said Gerdts." The one about the hunter who shot the bear and skinned it, and went off with the hide, leaving his own coat behind… He turns around and he sees the bear following him, wearing his coat. That's what it is, it's a skinned bear." . "Could it be the card for Death?" asked his wife." It looks like Death to me."
Gerdts searched through the pack." Afraid not, Dorie. This one's Old Mr. Death, see?" The skull's eyes stared sightlessly out at them.
"I've looked all through these"-Ellie laid aside the paperbacks and there's nothing like it." She began leafing through the third book ." Maybe it's from another deck."
Milton turned it over. Its back bore the same design as the other cards.
Ellie sighed." This book's no good either. I may have to do this by process of elimination." Paul glanced surreptitiously at his watch."
I'll figure it out," she said." Don't worry."
"I'm not worrying," said Milton.
"Looks like I'm gonna have to leave," said Paul." Tell me how it all comes out." He looked around for the host and hostess.
"I'm sure it isn't a number card, or a royal card," said Ellie, "so that means it has to be one of the Trumps Major."
"Ah, I've got it," said Milton." Satan."
"But it hardly looks like "It must be. I've looked through the whole pack, and there's no Satan card."
"Well…" She looked down at the card in question." Yes, maybe there is the hint of a horn, around the other side… but would Satan really be facing away?"
"Maybe displaying his rump for us to kiss," said Doris. She blushed.
"Last call for quiche," yelled Phyllis from across the room." Get it while it's hot!"
The Goodhues and the Fitzgeralds had left, having spent the evening in conversation with no one but themselves, and Paul was putting on his coat. He paused for one final mouthful of quiche.
The Gerdtses drifted toward the food table, more out of obligation than hunger, and-after making sure his wife was "absolutely stuffed"-Milton joined them, leaving Ellie alone with the cards.
Yes, the gray shape probably represented Satan; the mystery was solved.
Yet it was all rather exasperating, for Satan in one book was a Mosaic-looking deity with a flowing beard; in another, a black magician; and in the third, a sullen, goatlike figure officiating at the unholy matrimony of two disciples. The thing that shambled across the card resembled none of them; it was simply, as her husband had said, The Beast.
She was thinking of the Little Devil of the storybook le Petit Diable, she supposed it must be called-when her hand, straying to the remaining card in Milton's spread, unthinkingly turned it face up, revealing Satan upon his throne, the two naked mortals joined in wedlock before him.
The Lazaruses had just left, and Janet Mulholland backed away from the cold blast of air that dropped toward her legs as the door swung shut.
Her husband was helping her with her coat, and Mike Carlinsky was searching in the closet for his fiancées gloves. Arthur Faschman was standing by the window with Herb, watching the exodus.
"Getting late," said Herb.
Faschman looked at his watch." Wow, I'll say! Hey, Judy," he called,
"do you have any idea what time it is?"
" After twelve. So what?"
"So I've gotta drive Andy down to the orthodontist tomorrow morning, that's what. Unless you want to do it." He turned back to Herb."
Listen to her. Last of the swingers. You ought to hear her the morning after. Better yet, you ought to see her!" He looked at his watch, more nervously this time." Hey, how is it outside? Not raining or anything, I hope…" He peered out the window.
"It's cold out there," said Milton." George said it may even snow.
El and I were all set to go, but now we're thinking of staying over."
"I must say, he's carrying that gentleman farmer bit a little too far," said Faschman." I mean, just look. Isn't that a scarecrow out there?"
"Where?" Milton rubbed his fist against the glass. The light in the living room was strong, and he could see little more than his own reflection." Where, in the yard?"
"No, way the hell out there, over on the other side of the field."
He tapped on part of the pane; it was smeared with condensation.
"See? Ah, too late, the moon's behind a cloud. You'll pass it when you leave. You really going to stay all night?"
"Sure, why not? Free breakfast."
"Yeah," said Judy Faschman, coming up behind them, "if you don't mind leftover quiche."
Carefully Ellie laid out the cards. The Sun, The Moon, The Star Judgment, Temperance, and Justice… She'd been standing here half an hour, checking, and they were all there. The Emperor, The Hermit, The Hierophant… Strength, The World, and The Wheel of Fortune.
All twenty-two of them, the Trumps Major, each with its message. Satan, and Death, and The Hanged Man… and even The Fool. (Why did she always associate that with poor George? He'd been so out of sorts tonight.) All had been accounted for; she'd matched them all with the illustrations in the book. What, then, was this additional card? The green cardboard box said, "78 cartes." That, and the brand name, Grand Etteilla-derived, the book had said, from Alliette, the unsavory magician who'd introduced them to the French court-and below it the seal of the printer, B. P. Grimaud, of Marseilles. Nothing about an extra trump, a spare, a bonus, a joker She studied it again. She hadn't noticed before, built in places the picture was rather disturbingly detailed. She could make out the bulletlike contours of a head just about to turn in her direction, and an upraised front claw, shadowy against the night. Something in the configuration of the stars in the background reminded her of the sky outside the windows…
Hastily she placed the cards back in the box, slipping the gray hunched thing well into the middle of the pack, as if to cage it. The twenty-third trump, she suspected, was no joker.
"And here I thought you were going to stay over," said Phyllis.
"Aw, Phyl, come on. Admit it, you're relieved to get us out of the way.
One less bed to make in the morning." Milton leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek." My wife says she's tired, and when MY wife says she's tired that means it's home for us." The excuse sounded lame;
Ellie's sudden decision to leave, without even the offer to help clean up, had been rude.
"You sure you don't want one more before you go?" asked George. (Where had he come from?) He jiggled his drink invitingly, but it looked like the drink he'd been sipping all night.
Milton shook his head, smiling sheepishly." Honest, kids, I just want to say, before I hit the road, that if I got a little out of hand tonight, you know, if I said anything I shouldn't have, well, I never was much good at holding my liquor and "It was a pleasure, old buddy, honest." George slapped him on the arm; he seemed to be rallying." If you said anything nasty, I sure didn't hear it."
Relief showed in Milton's face." Yeah, well, thanks a lot. I mean it.
I love this place and I had a great time here tonight." He reached for George's hand." And I just hope you and Phyl are-"
"Honey!" Ellie's voice came from the driveway." I'm standing out here in the cold, and you've got the car keys."
"Christ, yeah, gotta run." He looked over his shoulder." Sorry El's a little cranky, but you know these women. Can't keep'em up past midnight!" Pulling up his collar, he flashed Phyllis a big grin." She really had a great time, and you can bet that "Honey!"
Milton shrugged." Bye now." He leaned into the hall." G'night, everybody. See you soon." Then, stepping outside: "Whoops, get away from the door, Phyl, you'll catch cold." His footsteps crunched on the gravel.
Silence lay on the room; conversation had sputtered and died.
The men took George's yawn as a signal to depart, but they waited for their wives to finish helping Phyllis clean up
, careful to make no acknowledgment of the late hour. Allen Goldberg sat smoking disconsolately on the couch, watching Cissy Hawkins fuss over the few remaining platters of canapés and fruit; as the only remaining bachelor, Paul Strauss having made his exit, Allen was expected to drive Cissy home.
He glanced toward Joyce Applebaum, who marched toward the kitchen carrying two bowls of clam dip and the remains of a cheesecake. She was a lot more attractive than Cissy. Her husband lay sprawled in the big armchair, his face red from drink and fatigue; he'd slept through most of the party." Come on, baby, hurry it up," he said.
Baby. All the men remarked on that; Walter had only been married a few months.
When Cissy offered to scrub the kitchen floor, Phyllis had to dissuade her." Or I can help dry dishes," the girl pleaded.
"Honestly, Cis, you've been a terrific help all evening and there's nothing left to do." She withdrew her hands from the sink and shook them free of suds." Now go back in there and relax, and we'll make sure you have a ride home."
Relieved, Cissy returned to the living room, only to face the sullen stares of the men. Awkwardly she moved to the bridge table and began tidying up-then, to busy herself, opened the green cardboard box. The Six of Swords was on top, followed by The Tower. She would put them in order, she decided, just as, in her apartment, she'd spent hours arranging and rearranging her few dozen books. Swords in this pile, cups in that, picture cards over there…
The picture cards were prettiest, but she wasn't sure how to arrange them until she saw the tiny numerals at the bottom. Judgment, number 20, the naked people sprouting from their graves like com -why, you could see the woman's nipples-and number 7, The Chariot, would be before it, a black sphinx and a white sphinx roped together, and then 10, The Wheel of Fortune with the white sphinx (the same?) perched on top, and 12, The Hanged Man, with his knowing smirk, and then The Fool, inexplicably numbered with a zero-perhaps that was a mistake, and she put it aside-and 8, Strength, the girl with what was that?-a lion, and then The Moon, 18, shedding its light onto the open field, dogs howling below it, and then a huge gray animal staring malevolently at something beyond the edge of the card; they'd left off the number and she put it aside with The Fool, and then Temperance, number 14, which made her smile because her grandmother had been in the WCTU… She wondered if, to some people, her own beliefs appeared as ridiculous, and continued counting: The World, The Lovers, and Death… When would he ask her if she needed a ride?
Allen had made the mistake of watching her, and when she looked up his eyes met hers. As if on cue, he stubbed out his cigarette and got to his feet." Uh, Cissy, do you need a lift home?"
When George came into the kitchen, his wife whispered, "So are they planning to stay all night?"
He shrugged." You know Herb-last to come, last to leave. He has that look on him, too, that philosophical-discussion look." Phylhis sighed."
But you know, I wouldn't mind him staying awhile. I'm not really tired."
"Well Tammie is, and so am I. If you two want to talk all night that's up to you. I'll put out some things in the guest room for them, but after that I'm going straight to bed." She eyed him accusingly." Of course you're not tired, you haven't been running around all day. You spent half the party hiding in the bathroom."
Back in the living room Herb greeted him with, "You know, George, what this place needs is a nice little fire. That really would have made the evening, to have a fire going."
"Yeah, but they're a lot of bother." For a minute he'd thought Herb had suggested burning the house down.
"But what's a fireplace for if you don't build a fire on a cold night?"
"To tell you the truth, I'm not even sure if this chimney works. I'll have to get somebody in to check the flue." The bare fireplace looked like an empty stage, a performer still waiting in the wings." Besides, Phyllis threw out all the firewood, and if you want any more you've got to walk half a mile to the woodshed"-he gestured toward a window- "all the way around back."
Herb stood." I'm game," he said." Just tell me where it is."
Tammie came out of the downstairs bathroom, her hair patted back into shape, the tiredness around her eyes concealed." And where do you think you're going?" she said.
" To get some firewood," said Herb." Build us a fire."
"Herb here's trying to prove he's an outdoorsman," explained George." I made fun of him earlier tonight-I mean, when you two got lost on the way here-so now he's out to show me up."
Tammie pouted." Really, honey, everyone's tired and ready for bed... And all of a sudden you have to build a fire?"
"I'm not tired," said Herb, on the defensive." Anyway, a stack of lumber by the andirons would brighten up some atmosphere."
"Fine," said George, in no mood to argue." You're hired. You're our new interior decorator. Now go through the kitchen, out the door to the greenhouse, but before you reach it turn right, go down the steps, and you'll see a path by the back of the house. Follow that to the garage and you'll see the woodshed, out near the hedges. I'm pretty sure it's unlocked."
"Better put a coat on, honey."
"I don't need it." Herb strode toward the kitchen.
"How'd you like Mike's fiancée?" asked Tammie when they were alone. She reached for a cigarette." Think she's right for him?" 'Oh, I'd met her before. She's okay. It was Ellie who introduced them, you know."
"No kidding! Where, at the beach last summer?"
"Yeah."
"And what did you think of her tonight, lecturing out of that book?"
"Oh, she just gets a little carried away with the sound of her own voice, that's all." He noticed the books she'd left on the bridge table, and went to get them. They belonged in the library; only leatherbound books for the living room." Ellie's a strong-minded woman." she bosses Milt around? When she "I'll say. Did you see how decided it was time to leave, that was it, he had to go. Just like-" She looked toward the window." Well, here comes Herb with the firewood."
"What, already? No, he must have gotten lost. Wonder why he's round the front." Taking a deep breath, he opened the green corn box.
The cards spilled out onto the table.
Phyllis entered the room, wiping her hands on a dish towel.
He turned over several minor trumps, then a picture card, The Tower.
Lightning flashed, stone walls crumbled, and beyond them raged the sea.
He pushed it to one side. Somehow he wished that Herb had not gone out." Hey honey, did you lock the back door?" "Not yet. Why?" She walked to the front window and drew the curtains. "Anybody ready for bed? I'll get some clean linen out."
"Now you're sure it's no bother?" asked Tammie. She stood.
"Herb and I can make do with these couches, you know." They heard the crunch of gravel outside.
"Nonsense! We'll go upstairs and get the room ready, and by the time we come down the men'll have a fire going." George didn't look up; he was absorbed in sorting through the cards, searching for one card in particular." And we'll all have some hot chocolate. Won't that be nice?"
From outside came a high-pitched whistling; something thudded against the door. Tammie, who was closest, walked into the front hall.
As her hand fastened on the doorknob, George gave a little gasp; he staggered back, dropping the card and what glared from it, and as she swung open the door he screamed, "No, Tammie, no!" But it was already too late; a gray shape filled the doorway, blotting out the night-and now, just as in the card, it turned to face him
Children of the Kingdom
“Mischief is their occupation, malice their habit, murder their sport, and blasphemy their delight.”
—Maturin, Melmoth the Wanderer
“They are everywhere, those creatures.”
—Derleth, The House on Curwen Street
“It taught me the foolishness of not being afraid.”
—rape victim, New York City
On a certain spring evening several years ago, after an unsuccessful interview in Boston
for a job I’d thought was mine, I missed the last train back to New York and was forced to take the eleven-thirty bus. It proved to be a “local,” wending its way through the shabby little cities of southern New England and pulling into a succession of dimly lit Greyhound stations far from the highway, usually in the older parts of town—the decaying ethnic neighborhoods, the inner-city slums, the ghettos. I had a bad headache, and soon fell asleep. When I awoke I felt disoriented. All the other passengers were sleeping. I didn’t know what time it was, but hesitated to turn on the light and look at my watch lest it disturb the man next to me. Instead, I looked out the window. We were passing through the heart of yet another shabby, nameless city, moving past the same gutted buildings I’d been seeing all night in my dreams, the same lines of cornices and rooftops, empty windows, gaping doorways. In the patches of darkness, familiar shapes seemed strange. Mailboxes and fire hydrants sprouted like tropical plants. Yet somehow it was stranger beneath the streetlights, where garbage cast long shadows on the sidewalk, and vacant lots hid glints of broken glass among the weeds. I remembered what I’d read of those great Mayan cities standing silent and abandoned in the Central American jungle, with no clue to where the inhabitants had gone. Through the window I could now see crumbling rows of tenements, an ugly red-brick housing project, some darkened and filthy-looking shops with alleys blocked by iron gates. Here and there a solitary figure would turn to watch the bus go by. Except for my reflection, I saw not one white face. A pair of little children threw stones at us from behind a fortress made of trash; a grown man stood pissing in the street like an animal, and watched us with amusement as we passed. I wanted to be out of this benighted place, and prayed that the driver would get us through quickly. I longed to be back in New York. Then a street sign caught my eye, and I realized that I’d already arrived. This was my own neighborhood; my home was only three streets down and just across the avenue. As the bus continued south I caught a fleeting glimpse of the apartment building where, less than half a block away, my wife lay awaiting my return.
Less than half a block can make a difference in New York. Different worlds can co-exist side by side, scarcely intersecting. There are places in Manhattan where you can see a modern high-rise, with its terraces and doormen and well-appointed lobby, towering white and immaculate above some soot-stained little remnant of the city’s past—a tenement built during the Depression, lines of garbage cans in front, or a nineteenth-century brownstone gone to seed, its brickwork defaced by graffiti, its front door yawning open, its hallway dark, narrow, and forbidding as a tomb. Perhaps the two buildings will be separated by an alley; perhaps not even that. The taller one’s shadow may fall across the other, blotting out the sun; the other may disturb the block with loud music, voices raised in argument, the gnawing possibility of crime. Yet to all appearances the people of each group will live their lives without acknowledging the other’s existence. The poor will keep their rats, like secrets, to themselves; the cooking smells, the smells of poverty and sickness and backed-up drains, will seldom pass beyond their windows. The sidewalk in front may be lined with the idle and unshaven, men with T-shirts and dark skins and a gaze as sharp as razors, singing, or trading punches, or disputing, perhaps, in Spanish; or they may sit in stony silence on the stoop, passing round a bottle in a paper bag. They are rough-looking and impetuous, these men; but they will seldom leave their kingdom for the alien world next door. And those who inhabit that alien world will move with a certain wariness when they find themselves on the street, and will hurry past the others without meeting their eyes.