No Birds Sing Here

by Daniel V. Meier Jr.

  “Don’t you think that would be a little obvious?” Malany asked.

  Beckman held his finger up for silence and leafed through the phone directory.

  “Yes, this is Algernon Becker. You might be interested in this. I just saw Mr. Beckman go into this bar . . . ” Beckman ran his fingers down one of the directory’s pages and stopped near the bottom. “The Dirty Sam . . . what do you mean, never heard of him? What are you, a fucking illiterate?” Beckman dropped the phone down. “That ought to make ’em mad enough.” He started for the door. Then, sensing Malany’s mood, he was momentarily thrilled that his thoughts seemed to come in with such clarity. “I’m going to this joint to meet the press. I’ll call you if anything really good happens.”

  Malany felt decidedly uneasy about Beckman’s proposals. She hated the idea of fraud and misrepresentation, but she couldn’t resist enjoying the feeling of warmth that came over her when she thought about the possibility of selling more of her poetry. Maybe Beckman’s point of view was right. Maybe, in the long term, that’s how great things are done. How many national and world leaders have faked a crisis to get what they want? How many lies had been told in the heat of passion? She thought about the lies she had told her husband and the great lie she had told herself about not needing his money. She knew he could see through it all. He was a psychiatrist, a society doctor. He knew when people were lying and yet he wanted her anyway. He was willing to go along with her need to be a poet. He could be counted on—not like Beckman.

  Malany awoke with a start. She had fallen asleep with her clothes on in the moon glow of the TV screen, something she never liked to do. The phone was ringing at a glass-breaking pitch. It was Beckman on the other end, sounding worried, and announcing that he had been arrested and was going to be put in jail if she didn’t bail him out. He would furnish all the details when she arrived.

  She heard him say “What?” to someone in the room. There was the hum of panic in his voice. Then the phone went dead. She hurriedly called a cab, grabbed the white envelope of money, and ran down to the lobby to wait.

  Beckman was followed into the station waiting room by a policeman streaked with polished black leather belts bejeweled with gleaming bullets. The policeman glared with undisguised contempt, first at Beckman, then at Malany, who visibly shuddered. The policeman had some forms in his hand, which he threw down onto a table. He indicated with his finger that she should sit down and sign them before words could be spoken.

  Malany scratched her signature on the duplicate, triplicate, and quadruplicate form. The policeman grabbed the papers, looked them over, and said toward the wall, “$50 and you can go.”

  Malany put $50 on the table, and the policeman snatched it up.

  “Do I get a receipt?” Malany asked.

  “Gottdamnit!” the policeman muttered and scribbled out a form receipt.

  “Where is the car?”

  “Whor he left it, I supoze,” the policeman said, shuffling the papers and counting the money.

  “I think you ought to at least take us to the car.”

  The policeman laughed, a wheezy, asthmatic laugh. “Get the hell outta here before I lock you both up. Buncha Gottdamn hippies.”

  Malany reached for the phone. The policeman charged toward her, hand on his pistol.

  “I said, get outta here!”

  Beckman grabbed her by the hand and pulled her ahead of the policeman out of the room.

  “I was only going to call a cab.” Malany’s voice came from the darkness.

  “There’s a pay phone in the hall.”

  Malany grunted and Beckman realized he was squeezing her hand too hard.

  The cab took them to where Beckman had left the car parked outside the bar.

  “I didn’t know it was a redneck joint, but what was I to do? It seemed all right until after about twenty minutes when I had started to give up all hope. This redneck walks up and starts trying to provoke me. You know, the bit about being a long-haired hippie freak and so on. Said I was too old to act like a candy-assed college boy. I tried to reason with him. I soon saw that it wasn’t going to work, so I tried to excuse myself. That only excited him more. The next thing I knew, fists were swinging, chairs flying, and I was on the floor crawling like hell for the door. I didn’t make it, as you know. The cops burst in before I could get out, and here I am. They hauled everyone to the drunk tank. The reds all swore that I had started it, that I had tried to sell them grass. It was terrible.”

  Malany was silent. Bursts of passing headlights flashed across her face. “Are you hurt?”

  “No, not even my pride.”

  “I think you’d better cut the macho bit. In fact, this whole con scheme is beginning to look rather ludicrous. How far do you think you can go conning the public, anyway?”

  “Malany, that sounds incredibly naive. The whole economic system in this country is based on the ability of one guy to out-con the other. Why do you think so much money is spent on PR and advertising? Look at all the great con men. Henry Ford, the Rockefellers, and there is no greater con man than a fiction writer. Yes, and even poets. I’ll bet even T.S. Eliot laughed on the way to the bank he worked in.”

  “I still don’t want to do it this way. It’s inherently dishonest. Where will it lead?”

  “Christ, leave it to a starving poet to talk about honesty. Tell you what, let’s try one more approach, strictly highbrow this time.”

  Malany withheld her consent until they were halfway across the parking lot of the Hilton Inn. Then she stopped and looked with fear and shock into the darkness.

  “But it can’t be in this town,” Beckman continued, unaware of any change in Malany. Halfway through dinner in the hotel restaurant, he noticed she trembled slightly, and her eyes sparked and darted with alarm.

  After dinner she left abruptly, saying she wanted to go for a walk, that she would meet him back in the room. It had the tone of a command, but with an added dash of urgency. Beckman had plans to make, and welcomed the chance to be alone. Perhaps she was fighting a sudden, perverse desire for a rare steak.

  He picked up a road map of the Southeastern United States in the lobby and took the elevator up to the top floor. He fell asleep studying the map and did not wake up until Malany returned. He wasn’t completely awake even then. She said something to him, then undressed to take a shower. The sound of the splashing water lulled Beckman back into unconsciousness, and it was Malany who woke him, fully dressed and anxious.

  “Let’s go,” she said, meaning now.

  They headed south along Interstate 81, snaking gracefully through rising mountains, the air heavy with the odor of apple trees, pesticides, and diesel trucks. The sun grew hotter and more irritating with every sixty miles. Malany seemed to grow more uncomfortable the farther south they traveled, like a watchful animal outside of its territory. They cruised past unpainted shacks with black families sitting around, silent and idle, gaunt or fat white men in tight, synthetic clothes. Fertile ground for a literary society, Beckman insisted, as he reminded her in an unpunctuated monologue on the literary tradition of the South. They drove until late in the afternoon, scouting every small town along the way until Beckman, with unashamed joy, announced that they had found it: a town of about thirty thousand with historical monuments praising the dead soldiers of the Confederacy; clean, shady streets; and old established homes that Beckman was certain contained at least one grotesque result of an incestuous relationship. They drove around the town, mesmerized, until Beckman demanded to know the time.

  “Four-thirty,” Malany said, staring at her watch.

  “Just in time to make it to the library.”

  An octogenarian woman in a flower-trimmed hat gave them directions in a screaming voice.

  “Look at that,” Malany said, her eyes following up the length of each Corinthian column. “It’s a house, a mansion.”

  “No, Malany, you’re forgetting. It’s a museum, a shrine, an image.”

  “Oh,” Mala
ny said. She seemed to understand.

  Beckman dug out one of Malany’s books.

  “What are you going to do?”

  Beckman hopped out of the car. “I’m going to challenge the image.”

  “No fights,” she shouted after him. Beckman jammed the thin volume under his shirt against his back where it would not be noticeable and strode in past the desk, commanded by a gaunt, gray-haired woman of inestimable age, then under an ancient, glass ceiling light, and past wide, red carpeted stairs ascending to the floor above. He went directly to the outdated card catalogue drawers and found the poetry section. He took one of the strips of white paper provided for notes and placed it neatly in his shirt pocket.

  The poetry volumes were kept near the back of one of the largest rooms in the library. He took out one of the newer volumes and examined the call number. It had been hand printed in black ink, and the label was of the same quality paper as the slip of note paper in his shirt pocket.

  He went to the other side of the room where it was darkest and carefully removed the clear tape which held the call number to the spine of the book, wadded the number into a tiny ball, and put it into his pants pocket. He returned to the card catalogue and tried the pens. The ink was similar, only a little lighter shade than that which was used for the call number. Beckman practiced printing the rounded letters and numbers of the library’s book until he was satisfied with his reproductions. He then looked around and noticed the librarian at the desk glancing sideways at him. He looked away, fingered his chin, and carefully wrinkled his brow to create the image of profound thought. He waited a few moments for effect; then, as though he had unexpectedly solved his problem, hurried toward the direction of the stacks. He stopped outside the men’s restroom, looked quickly around and, not seeing anyone, ducked in.

  The restroom was empty and smelled abnormally of antiseptic and perfume. Beckman quickly bolted himself into the last stall and put the toilet seat and cover quietly down. Carefully, gently, he creased the piece of note paper with the book number that he had written on it to the size of the original book’s number. With the edge of the poetry book and his thumb nail, he tore the paper along the creased line. It wasn’t as clean a cut as he would have liked, but no one ever examined a book that closely, anyway. Gently, he removed the book’s library number and taped it on the spine of Malany’s book. Then he taped the number he had printed on the poetry volume over the dark area where its original number had been. He then tore out the title page with the printer’s name, folded it, and stuffed it into his pants pocket.

  He was breathing indecently hard. The minute hand on his watch had only moved a couple of ticks. He read the graffiti in the stall for a few minutes to calm down. “Fuck you” was scrawled in foot-high letters over the cubical door, inescapably facing the sitter. On either side, infantile etchings of erect and non-erect phalluses all with oversized testicles, ejaculated bullet shaped semen in parabolic trajectories toward the door. There were the usual advertisements for “blow jobs” with phone numbers, sketched drawings of figures in sexual intercourse, and yes or no questionnaires of sexual performances. It was all too reminiscent of Beckman’s past life in the restaurant. He unlocked the door of the cubicle and walked unnoticed to the poetry section. He planted Malany’s book in the space previously occupied by the original poetry volume and wedged the other book volume farther down the row, but still within the same number series. Beckman then sauntered up to the desk and looked directly at the librarian. He smiled as she glanced at him. Her mouth twitched nervously at the corners. She finished stamping a stack of books and turned toward him, quietly offering her services.

  “What do I have to do to get a library card?” It was Beckman’s most pleasant, most trusting voice.

  The librarian reached under the desk, brought out a small form, and floated it toward him.

  “Just fill this out. Make sure the address is correct, and return it as soon as you can. And oh, you can also mail it, if you want.”

  “Could I check a book out now?”

  The librarian’s mouth twitched again. She glanced at her watch.

  “Well, I’ll have to get Mrs. Dowell to fill out a temporary card.”

  The librarian seemed deeply troubled by the complexities or the consequences. Was Mrs. Dowell a fearful tyrant, a sexually repressed, psychic monster finding sanctuary in the physical, material world of books? Beckman eyed his adversary, feeling the sudden heat of her fear as he mentally pulled out his gun and ordered her against the wall.

  “Oh, it isn’t necessary to go to that much trouble. I’ll stop by as soon as I’m permanently located,” he said.

  “Oh, are you moving into our area?”

  “I’m not sure yet, but from what I’ve seen,” he smiled his warmest, genuine smile. “It looks like the sort of place we’ve been looking for.”

  The librarian resumed stamping books. “Oh, and what sort of place is that?” she asked.

  “Something quiet and established, preferably with a high literacy level. That’s why I’m here, in the library, and it’s only our first day in town. It’s a habit hard to break. Every time I find myself in a different place for more than a day, I always check out what the town has to offer intellectually.”

  “Well,” the librarian smiled, beaming two rows of skeletal-like teeth. “I know you’ll love our little town.”

  “Oh, yes. So far it’s been just perfect.” Beckman waited. All the categorical questions had been answered. The librarian had filed him under subject with a brief biographical sketch. All that was needed was a title.

  “Are you one of the new people coming with the fertilizer plant?” the librarian asked.

  “Oh, no. I’m afraid not.”

  The way was opened. Beckman sensed it was time to withdraw and leave the title blank until his next visit.

  “Thank you very much. I’ll let you finish your work. I’ve held you up long enough.” Beckman waved a feeble goodbye and started for the door. The librarian started to say something, but apparently thought it wasn’t worth the risk of raising her voice.

  Malany had remained unaltered by her long wait in the car. “Explain,” she said. The tone demanded compliance. Beckman told her what had happened in the library.

  “Yes, but what are you up to?”

  “Making a very desperate attempt to sell your book and establish a literary reputation for both of us.”

  “Beckman, this is crazy, this hick town. How did I ever get into this?”

  “Herschel, remember?”

  “Oh, yeah. But that’s over. So, if you want a ride to Baltimore or anywhere in between there and New York, it’s okay.” Malany started the car.

  “Wait a minute,” Beckman shouted. “At least give it a couple of days. I’ve got a plan. Do me that much of a favor. And besides, what the hell’s back in New York?”

  Malany shrugged. “People, activity, intellectual stimulation, and safety?”

  “Bah. That’s got to be the most middle-class bullshit I’ve ever heard. I’m disappointed in you, Malany.” Beckman pretended to open the car door.

  “I didn’t mean that kind of safety, dummy. I mean I don’t trust these hicks. They’re . . . crude and violent.”

  “Malany, you’ve cross-circuited your identifications. These are good people here, admirably innocent, gentle as lambs. You saw the place. I’ll bet there hasn’t been a murder here since Cain did in Abel.”

  “I don’t trust ’em!” she said.

  “I think you’re being very unsophisticated, which doesn’t qualify you to call these people hicks.”

  “Well, is there a motel in this town? I’ll bet there isn’t even a motel.”

  “There has to be a motel. Every town in America has a motel.”

  “I’m not staying in one of those guest homes. What do they call ’em now, B&Bs. They’re all so goddamn Victorian. It’s like visiting an old, sick aunt with grandfather clocks ticking everywhere, driving people crazy.”

&nbs
p; “There has to be a motel,” Beckman said with more assurance. “Shall I drive?”

  Malany nodded. Beckman walked around to the driver’s side. The Oldsmobile started reluctantly, battery going down, and the gas gauge banging against empty. Beckman reached over and patted her on the leg.

  “Don’t be upset. We’ll be safe. There’ll be time to write. And in a lovely place like this, time to dream.”

  He stopped at the first gas station he saw. A man, brown, wrinkled and dehydrated, strode out.

  “How much can we afford?” Beckman asked.

  “Tell him to fill it up.”

  The man’s face protruded through the open car window into the car. He smiled, exposing a single twisted brown tooth. Beckman stared at his hat, a large, brown, baseball type with a gold patch spelling out Cat Diesel Power on the front.

  “Fill it up, please, with regular,” Beckman said, surprised at the tremor in his own voice and embarrassed by the man’s hot, earth-smelling presence.

  Beckman watched through the rearview mirror as the attendant loped easily back to the gas pump and violently twisted a few handles. Bells rang, and the attendant, hunched over, shoved the neck of the gas pump into the tank opening at the rear of the car and, in open-mouthed ecstasy, pumped the gasoline into the car with a torrential roar. Beckman felt a sudden strangulating nausea swim up to his throat.

  The attendant began cleaning the windshield and stared down, watching first Malany, then Beckman through blurred swipes of the cloth. With the brutal smell of gasoline and the hideous attendant staring down at him with a quizzical look of determination, Beckman felt that he had somehow been surreptitiously violated. He stuck his head out of the car window and shouted to the attendant, who was now on Malany’s side of the car.

  “Is there a good motel around here?”

  The attendant grinned, his throat working to suppress a giggle. He pushed his baseball cap back.

  “Nope.”

  “I mean, is there some place my wife and I can spend the night?” The attendant, now smiling at Malany, pointed in the direction their car was pointed. “’Bout two miles. That-a-way.”