All The Bells on Earth (23 page)

“No,” Argyle said. He hung up the telephone and picked up his coat from the back of the chair. Holding it in front of his crotch, he stepped out of the door and into the hallway, where, for some unholy reason, Walt Stebbins sat in a chair by the receptionist’s desk, filling out papers.

I
VY AND
J
INX LEFT
at seven-thirty, heading down to Watson’s for breakfast, and Henry sneaked away down the sidewalk not five minutes later without saying a word to Walt, who felt as if he were surrounded by plots. Everybody had some kind of iron in the fire this morning—capitalism, hula-hula women, crayon graffiti—and he was left with the mundane chores. At eight he had to haul the kids over to the preschool and get them signed up, whatever that entailed, then stop at the grocery store on the way to the Old Hill Mailbox, where he’d ship the morning’s UPS packages.

It had been a mistake to tell Ivy about having seen Argyle out driving around the neighborhood at the time of the vandalism. She had accused him outright of jealousy. Jealousy! Argyle’s vandalizing the house had been beyond her understanding, but it wasn’t beyond Walt’s—although, clearly, what he understood he couldn’t tell her.

The television was going in the house, and he could hear the sound of a rinky-dink cartoon jingle. The melody was vaguely familiar—from ages ago. A wave of nostalgia struck him, and he stopped to listen, laying the tape dispenser on the bench. It was Spunky and Tadpole! Great God almighty, he thought, in
this
day and age? Full of a sudden curious joy, he went out through the garage door and looked in at the window. Nora and Eddie sprawled on the floor in that weird rubber-legged way kids have, half sitting and half kneeling. They stared fixedly at the screen, Nora’s head bobbing time to the music. Walt heard her laugh out loud and point; it was Tadpole, all right, just then coming along the road, carrying a fishing pole with a bigheaded fish on it. The fish was apparently dead, because his eyes were X’d out.

Walt abruptly recalled last night’s adventure in the kitchen—Nora and Eddie setting out to make bubble castles in the sink. Why the hell had he broken it up so quickly and sent them to bed? Only one damned reason: monkey business; that’s what Ivy had called it. Well, fat lot of good it had done anybody. He wished now that he had let the kids have a few minutes with the bubbles. Ten minutes would have seemed an eternity to them, nothing to him.

He could remember the long cartoon mornings when he was that age: the cold cereal, television programs stacked end to end like books on a shelf, the clock on the wall nearly falling asleep…. It was one of the wild, doomed luxuries of childhood. Say what you want, but Spunky and Tadpole were vital in a way that was as huge as the sky, and so were bubbles in the sink.

He realized now that Nora was watching him through the window, making her rabbit face, and he waved at her before turning around and hurrying back into the garage, where he grabbed one of the plastic bags full of miniature furniture, and headed out toward the avocado tree, the sun shining in the east. The air was sharp and clear, and he sucked in a big lungful as he peeked under the flowerpot. The daddy longlegs was crouched against the roof. There was a ragged web spun against the back wall with a couple of tiny flies already wound up in it, waiting to be sucked dry. One of the trapped flies wiggled a little bit, but struggling was useless.

“Hello, Mr. Argyle,” Walt said to the spider. “Top o’ the morning to you.” The spider seemed to retract at the sound of his voice, flattening itself into the corner. Walt wondered if he had a duty to the fly that was still alive; but probably there was no practical purpose in trying to do anything for it. And whatever moral value there would be in such a kindness was vague. Holding the pot carefully so as not to disturb the spider any more than necessary, he set two tiny chairs and a table onto the shelf and spread the little woven rug on the floor. Then he swiveled the pot around so that the broken-out section faced outward before he lowered the thing down over the furniture.

He returned to the garage, where he slipped a flashlight into his pocket. Then he looked in through the window again. The cartoon was just ending. Walt opened the back door and gestured to Nora and Eddie. “Put your shoes on,” he said. “I want to show you something.”

“Oh!” Nora said breathlessly, leaping up. Desperately she searched the floor with her eyes, holding one hand to her mouth. What she was looking for wasn’t at all clear. “What kind is it?” She looked wide-eyed at Walt.

“No kind,” Walt said. “Just something. Out under the tree.”

Eddie leaned out and picked up Nora’s shoes, which were in plain sight, and calmly handed them to her. She seemed relieved, as if a mystery had been cleared up. Eddie put on his own shoes without a word, carefully double-knotting the laces.

They followed Walt out through the door, across the wet grass. In the bright sunlight, rainwater steamed off the lawn in a mist. “It’ll be summer by noon,” Walt said, patting Nora’s shoulder. She smiled big at him and nodded. “Look here.” Walt pointed at a snail, heading for the dead herb garden. “This is Mr. Binion.”

“He has a name?” Nora asked. Eddie didn’t look at the snail, but studied the palm of his hand.

“Oh, yes,” Walt said. “There are many animals that live in these old neighborhoods.” He suddenly remembered his success with last night’s story, and he cast his voice low and serious, waving his hand, taking it all in. “At night,” he said, “possums and raccoons use these fences as roads, going from one house to another in search of food. In the spring, toads appear from out of ditches, and families of salamanders come to live under fallen logs.”

“
What
kind?” Nora asked, squishing up her face. Eddie picked up a bent stick that had fallen from the avocado tree and swung it like a baseball bat. He looked away, deadpan, staring at some spot in the sky now.

“What kind of what?” Walt asked.

“Those things.”

“Salamanders?”

Nora nodded.

“Do you know what a salamander is?” Walt asked. Nora shook her head.

“It’s a sort of newt.”

“Oh.”

“Like a lizard,” Eddie said helpfully.

“And like toads?” Nora asked.

“Kind of,” Walt said. “A toad is its cousin. And do you know what?”

“What?” Nora whispered now.

Walt squinted at her. “There was a toad out here last week that was wearing a hat and coat.”

“Oh!” Nora cried.

“And a mouse with a vest on. And spectacles.”

She covered her mouth with her hand, as if to keep from shouting out loud. Eddie rolled his eyes.

“What?” Walt said to Eddie. “You don’t believe me?”

Eddie shook his head, grinning faintly.

“I’ll bet you a plug nickel,” Walt said. “Try me.”

“Bet him!” Nora shouted. “Bet him, Eddie!”

Eddie shook his head, still grinning.

“Well, let’s just see, then.” Walt led the way into the garden shed, pretending to search around among the shovels and rakes. Nora followed him, taking exaggerated steps and biting her bottom lip. Eddie swung his stick with one hand, as if it were a sword now.

“What’s this?” Walt said. He stopped in his tracks, double-taking at the overturned flower pot. “What have we here?”

“What is it?” Nora said. “The snail?”

“It’s a
pot
,” Eddie said.

Walt pulled the flashlight out of his pocket and switched it on, then shined it in through the jagged door in the side of the pot. He could see the doll furniture in there. “What on earth? Nora, take a closer look.”

Nora stepped forward, glancing at him wide-eyed, then stood on tiptoe and peered into the hole in the pot. Her breath caught. She’d seen it. Very slowly she turned toward Walt. “Something’s house,” she whispered.

Walt nodded. “It’s the house of the amazing Mr. Argyle.” He motioned to Eddie. “Have a look-see.” He held the light on the hole.

Eddie looked in, and Nora clutched his arm, trying to get in close enough to take another look herself. “Don’t pig up,” she whispered. And then, with his free hand, Eddie reached up and grasped the top of the pot, upending it, exposing the doll furniture, the quivering web, the buzzing little fly wound in gauze. The spider, big around as a silver dollar with its legs fully extended, rushed down the side of the pot and out onto Eddie’s wrist. Nora screamed, leaping backward into Walt, and Eddie hooted with wild surprise, flinging the flowerpot into the fence and raking the stick down his arm to dislodge the spider. It fell into the dirt, and Eddy drew the stick back and slammed it down, yelling, “Shit! Shit! Shit!” and flailing at the spider until the stick broke off short in his hand.

Nora shook with spasms of fear and shock, and Walt hugged her, trying to calm her down. Eddie stomped on the spider, or where the spider had been, grinding it into the dirt until he worked all the wild terror out of himself. Then he stood there breathing heavily, looking at the ground as if for signs of movement.

“I think you got him,” Walt said after a moment.

“What
was
he?” Nora asked, calming down now that the threat was passed.

“Daddy longlegs,” Walt said.

“A daddy?”

“A
spider
,’ Eddie said.

“Is he Mr. Argyle?” Nora asked. “Like you said?”

“No,” Walt lied. “I don’t know what he’s done with Mr. Argyle.”

“He killed him,” Nora said.

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Walt said.

“He killed Mr. Argyle.”’ Nora started to giggle, finally covering her mouth with her hands.

Walt was relieved. She was apparently coming out of it. “What’s funny?” he asked her.

“Eddie said ‘shit,’ ” Nora said. “Shit, shit, shit.”

“Yes, indeed,” Walt said. “He had a reason to. You don’t have a reason to, so don’t say it.”

“I’m telling you.”

“I already know.”

“Poor Mr. Argyle,” Nora said, and together they walked back toward the house.

Walt heard the sound of a distant church bell tolling eight o’clock. For a moment he thought it was the bells of St. Anthony’s, miraculously restored—but it couldn’t be. These were tolling somewhere across Old Towne, beyond the Plaza, probably the bells in the tower at Holy Spirit Catholic Church. He couldn’t remember that they tolled the hours, but then maybe he’d never been listening for them, having always had bells closer to home. They took up the first notes of a Christmas carol, and carols were still ringing fifteen minutes later as he and Nora and Eddie drove east on Chapman Avenue, toward the Oak Lawn Preschool, the rain coming down hard again.

Walt ushered the children in through the door, past a half dozen mothers dropping off kids. One child stood in the hallway and sobbed out loud, and two others, apparently sisters, slugged and pinched each other, kicking like fiends on the carpeted floor of a classroom, or whatever they called it. There was a scream from down the hall, muffled by a closed door.

“I guess it’s just another day in paradise,” Walt said to the receptionist. He introduced Nora and Eddie to her, and the woman handed him a couple of forms to fill out and then started chatting with the kids.

A door swung open off the hall just then, and through it, looking like a hammered mannequin, strode Robert Argyle, heading toward the open front door, and carrying his coat over his arm. He spotted Walt and seemed to go brain-dead for a moment, his face losing all powers of expression. Slowly he recovered, forcing a smile as he stepped forward, holding out his hand. Walt shook it for an instant and dropped it.

“You’re surprised to see me,” Argyle said.

“Slightly.”

“This is one of my schools. I’m the director.”

Walt nodded, noticing suddenly that there was the rank smell of sulphur and piss on the air of the hallway. He squinted at Argyle, who still held his coat carefully in front of him. Forget it, he thought; this wasn’t something he wanted to know.

“Who are these, then?” Argyle asked, gesturing at Nora and Eddie. The preschool was quiet now, the hallway emptied out, the door to the classroom closed. The bells from across town were still playing carols, although it was too distant to make out the melody.

“This is Nora,” Walt said, “and this is Eddie, my niece and nephew. Kids, this is Mr. Argyle.”

Instantly, Nora covered her mouth with both hands, her eyes shooting open. She began to giggle. “The one the spider ate?” she asked.

“That’s right,” Walt said to her. “He’s not dead after all. Just like I told you.”

Argyle blinked his eyes hard, several times in succession, staring at Nora. Then he cocked his head, suddenly hearing something, his face white. Clearly it was the bells. They fell silent for a moment, and Argyle turned toward the door without saying another word, and right then they started up again, clanging away as if they’d ring right through until Christmas.

R
OBERT
A
RGYLE HAD A
business office in a big old flat-roofed Spanish-style house on Chapman Avenue. Probably he owned the house itself, which had been renovated and converted to office space, and which he shared with two law firms and some kind of consultant. His own office was subdued and unassuming—a couple of leather easy chairs, mahogany desk and file, Tiffany-style lamps, and a Berber carpet. There was no receptionist. Clearly it was more a hideaway than an office. Ivy had no real idea how much wealth he had managed to accumulate over the years; Argyle had never shown it off. It would have been nice to think a little better of him because of this, that despite his money he was a simple man, down to earth. And maybe he was.