The Axman Cometh (6 page)

When Petra, holding her lantern high, catches sight of the square red alarm box with a handy little hammer dangling from a chain, she also sees a big brindle sow, weighing upward of two hundred and
fifty
pounds, standing in the aisle blocking her way.

"You can't do this! I'm Petra, not Patricia! I'm the managing editor! Get away from me, you putrid hunk of bacon! I know you're not real, you can't be real!"

The sow grunts, lifting its pink snout slightly to sniff at her, seeing her, but dimly, with its poor eyes.

Petra retreats, screaming. But there are only four places of sanctuary on the floor: her office and the office of the publisher, side by side, with doors that can be closed and locked; and the bathrooms, also side by side. They are closest to her. She turns a corner and slips, badly, in a big scummy pile of droppings, smelling it as she falls. The lamp chimney shatters, the flame on the dwindled plug of paraffin gutters but does not go out. She hears the squealing of frenzied pigs and rolls over in broken glass, gasping, bloodying herself, to see them bearing down on her from out of the dark, so many of the hefty porkers they are fighting each other for room as if, back there where she can't see, pig drovers are hazing them through a slaughterhouse chute. Her screams speak of the torments of hell as pigs surround her, trample over
hen
she gets up, is

knocked down, gets halfway up again—but now some of them are interested in the blood from the cuts on her legs . . .

I'm disappointed in you, Shannon.

Leave me alone.

Very disappointed. I wanted you to draw me, but you drew—

Pigs. Just shut up.

Why did you draw—?

I
don't know. They just came into my head, some cuddly little pigs, so that's what I drew. I'm not talking to you anymore. I mean it.

Petra's dead.

What? Oh, you lying
motherf
—

Are you drawing again? That's good. What are you drawing now, Shannon?

"Something you won't like! Because he'll help me get out of here. And I won't ever have to listen to you again."

I'm afraid . .. I'm beginning to lose patience.

You killed them. You killed them all. Didn't you?

Nobody has ever loved you more than I love you, Shannon.

All those other families, in Nebraska, Missouri—yes, yes, I found out about them!

What else really matters but you, and me, and the music?

"All! All! Dead! DEAD! My family! You bastard! For the love of God, why?"

Do we have to talk about them? Sad things make me cry. Your spirit. Your talent. I had to fall in love with you, Shannon. Do you remember when?

"Who are
you?"

We both need to know that, don't we, Shannon.

"You must be Shannon Hill. I'm Robert McLaren."

(The Emerson high-school library. Four o'clock in the afternoon. Shannon is there taking down pictures from the Art Club's annual exhibition. She had thought she was alone, and is startled to hear an unfamiliar voice; but when she turns quickly she recognizes him—at least she has seen him once before that day, in the school offices. He smiled at her in passing. Now she smiles at him. He has a briefcase, an old-fashioned one with straps and buckles. A practice teacher, she thinks, from the School of Education at Emerson State. Several of them are around at the end of each school year, observing classroom procedures. There's a nice breeze coming through the open windows of the library. The dogwoods on the front lawn are the color of clouds, softening the horizon and a blazing prairie sky. Twelve days remain until summer vacation. Soon the Axman cometh.)

"Hello," Shannon says, shaping her greeting subtly, inquiring how he knows of her. McLaren is about six-two, with a well- formed, attractive boniness. He wears casual clothes with a definite flair: navy blazer with buttons like old gold coins and a pocket emblem—two lions in gold thread on their hind legs in mock-battle—gray slacks and loafers. The knot of his burgundy knit tie is a little askew, the shirt collar unbuttoned. He wears his sunglasses on top of a thick head of dark brown hair, razor-cut, which is just becoming the thing for guys, combed a little over the ears. He doesn't look that much older than some of the seniors, but obviously has them beat in self-assurance.

"I was admiring the chalk portrait you did; the one that's hanging outside Dean Elmo's office."

"
Ohh
—that's my neighbor, Mrs. Mayhew. I'm—well, I'm glad you like it."

"If it's for sale, I want to buy it."

"Buy it?"

"Yes. Don't you ever sell any of your work?"

"Sell any of my work?"
Oh, right, repeat everything he says; you're making a great impression.
"Sure," Shannon says, running a hand through her pixie-cut blonde hair and letting the hand rest lightly on the back of her neck, an almost unconscious gesture that nevertheless makes her breasts a little more prominent. "It's for sale," she decides.

"Then I'd like to talk to you about it. And a couple of other things." He glances at the remaining pictures mounted on portable bulletin boards. "Do you have much more to do here?"

"No, I'll just take those down and put them back in the art room so the kids can pick them up. The
custodians'll
do the rest, straighten up in here."

"Let me give you a hand."

"Okay. Put them in that pile on the table there. I already have my watercolors."

"Do you ever work in oil?"

"Oh, no. I feel like that's a big step for me. And I like water color. I know I'll give oil or acrylic a try, I'm just not ready. Where do you go to school?"

McLaren smiles. "I graduated from the University of Chicago. Three years ago."

"Oh. You don't look—"

"It's the family gene pool. When my mother was forty, everybody thought she was twenty-five. Never had a wrinkle. I ought to start shaving any day now."

"I guess you're not from around here."

"I live in Kenilworth, Illinois. That's a little north of Chicago, on the lake. Haven't been home for a while, though. I've been on the road since the beginning of April. Six states. No, seven, counting Kansas."

"What do you do, Mr. McLaren?"

"Rob. Let me give you my card."

"Rector and McLaren. Sales Representative."

"Textbooks. You're a junior? Then you're probably using one of our books in American history; that's required your junior year, isn't it?"

"Uh-huh. Are you related—"

"My grandfather was a cofounder of the company. We're one of the oldest textbook publishers in America. I've been learning the business for the last couple of years. Right now I'm in sales and promotions. Before that I worked in the warehouse, and had colds all winter. What I'd rather do is play golf and fly my plane. But I've got a couple of tough customers breathing down my neck: my grandfather and my father."

"How long have you been in Emerson, Rob?"

"Two days. I'll be here the rest of the week. Looks like a nice place. Not that much to do at night, unless you know somebody."

"Bowling. Miniature golf. Movies. Roller skating."

"Where's the best place to go for bacon cheeseburgers? I missed lunch."

"Oh, the Greaser—that's what we call the Greenwood Inn. It's not as disgusting as it sounds."

"Let's go. Unless you're due somewhere?"

"No—I didn't have anything planned. I'd love to."

"Good. But I'm going to make you work for that cheeseburger."

Shannon smiles uncertainly and lightly strokes her hair again, feathering it, wondering what kind of Chicago shenanigans he has in mind. But he unbuckles the flaps of his briefcase ("Used to belong to Clarence Darrow. So the story goes.") and takes out a sheaf of questionnaires.

"You could help me by filling out one of these. We collect opinions from the people we hope are deriving some benefit from our books—the students. Keeps us on our toes, and quite a few of our textbooks have been revised according to some of the very intelligent suggestions we get."

"I'm a long way from being Honor Society material—it's a good thing I can draw well, or I know I wouldn't be passing biology this year."

"I graduated
summa cum laude
but I'll tell you something; I never was that smart. I have a photographic memory. Lucky for me; the old man would've disowned my body and my soul if I'd come home with less than straight A's. Tell you something else: a photographic memory has its uses, but I'd much prefer to have your talent. If you keep it up, you could be—do you know who Georgia O'Keeffe is?"

"Do I
know
her! God, she's my hero, she's exactly the artist I want to be some day!"

"We have a lot to talk about," Robert McLaren says gleefully, with the smile that has begun to give her a lovely chill every time she sees it.

They have an hour together at The Greaser, then Shannon has to be home. Time has never gone by so quickly. She knows only a little about him, but when has he had the chance to talk? She's doing all the talking; and Robert, encouraging her, actually seems interested in her boring life. Read any good books lately, Shannon?
"A Farewell to Arms.
I think he's the greatest writer who ever lived. When I got to the end, I just sat and cried for about ten minutes. Then I turned back to page one and started all over. Catherine. You know, it's strange, that's how I see myself. Just like her." Although after a while she is frantic to shut up, mortified by some of the trivial,
juvenile
things she hears herself say (even after a trip to the bathroom she can't seem to calm down), Robert seems reluctant when she must be dropped off on West Homestead Avenue. They sit in his rental car, a sporty Nash Metropolitan, for a few minutes in front of the house, and Shannon is so on edge she has to steel herself not to chew her lower lip, knowing that there is no reason he would ever want to see her again after—

Robert says, "Hey, we didn't talk about Mrs. Mayhew."

"Mrs.—? Oh, you mean—no, listen, Rob, I couldn't sell—I mean, I don't want to sell you the portrait. She lives right behind us, I can do another any time. I'd like for you to have it. It's yours."

"Shannon. That is so beautiful of you." He leans toward her and gives her a friendly kiss, on the cheek but near the lips, and Shannon, a tingle turning to fire, thinks,
My God, if anybody saw that
—and thinks:
Next time I'm going to be ready.
And without thinking at all she says:

"Where—when can I see you? That is, if you want—"

"Are you going with anybody?" "No, not steady."

"Do you have a date tomorrow night?"
Tomorrow, tomorrow, what's—Friday!
"No, Friday's perfect. I don't have to be in until—"

"Do you like to fly?" She has never been in an airplane. "Oh, sure. I love it."

"We'll go flying. It's beautiful over this part of the country at night, when there's a full moon. Sometimes I can even see the shadow of the plane, see it reflected on the surface of a pond when nothing else is moving down there. I think I'd go crazy if I couldn't get off the ground whenever I have a chance. If the weather holds we'll fly out to the Rockies. I love mountains." She is looking blankly at him. "I have my own plane. A Piper Aztec. I've been flying since I was seventeen. I've logged more than eight hundred hours."

"That's great." Now, at long last, she can't think of anything more to say: his accomplishments are humbling, and he admires
her
talent. She has never dreamed anyone like Robert McLaren could exist outside of the pages of
Redbook
magazine. "Well—I'd better go in. It's my night to cook supper." Pork cutlets. Mashed potatoes. When all she wants is to be with him for another hour.