The Kill-Off (9 page)

“Yeah? What were you going to say, Jim?”

“Nothing,” I said. “Just that I doubt that it would have changed anything. Not with men like us.”

W
hen I awakened it was morning, and I was lying on the green pavement of The City of Wonderful People, and a hideous hangover held me in its thrall.

I sat up by degrees, shaking and shuddering. I massaged my eyes, wondering, yea, even marveling, over the complete non-wonderment of the situation. For lo! I invariably have a hangover in the morning, even as it is invariably morning when I awaken: and likewise, to complete the sequence of non-marvelousness, I invariably awaken in The City of Wonderful People.

“Hell,” I thought (fervently); “the same today, yesterday and—
Ouch!
”

I said the last aloud, adding a prayerful expletive, for the sunlight had stabbed into my eyes, speared fierily into my head like a crown of thorns. In my agony, I rocked back and forth for a moment; and then I staggered to my feet and stumbled over to Grandma's bed.

It was not a very nice bed, compared to those of the City's other inhabitants. Untended, except for my inept ministrations, it was protected only by an oblong border of wine bottles, which seemed constantly to be getting broken. And it was sunken in uncomfortably: and the grass was withered and brown—yeah, generously fertilized as it obviously was by untold numbers of dogs, cats and rodents. The headboard of the bedstead was of weathered, worm-eaten wood, a dwarfed phallus-like object bearing only her name and the word “Spinster”: painfully, or perhaps, painlessly, free of eulogy.

I studied the bleak inscription, thinking, as I often do when not occupied with other matters, that I should do something about it. I had considered substituting the words “Human Being,” with possibly a suffixed “Believe It Or Not.” But Grandma had not liked that: she had considered it no compliment. And she had made no bones—no pun intended—about letting me know it.

I sat facing her bed, my head bowed against the sun, staring down into the sunken hummock. The grass rustled restlessly, whispering in the wind; and after a time there was a dry, snorting chuckle.

“Well?” Grandma said. “Penny for your thoughts.”

“Now, that—” I forced a smile. “Now, that is the sort of thing that brings on inflation.”

Grandma snickered. She asked me how I was getting along with my book.

I said fine, that, in fact, I had finished it.

“Well, let's hear some of it,” Grandma said. “Start right with the beginning.”

“Certainly, Grandma,” I said. “Certainly…‘Once upon a time, there were two billion and a half bastards who lived in a jungle, which weighed approximately six sextillion, four hundred and fifty quintillion short tons. Though they were all brothers, these bastards, their sole occupation was fratricide. Though the jungle abounded in wondrous fruits, their sole food was dirt. Though their potential for knowledge was unlimited, they knew but one thing. And what they knew was only what they did not know. And what they did not know was what was enough.'”

I stopped speaking.

Grandma stirred impatiently. “Well, go on.”

“That's all there is,” I said.

“But I thought you said you'd finished. That's no more than you had before.”

“It's all there is,” I repeated. “As I see it, there is nothing more to say.”

We were silent for a time. Without talk to divert me, my hangover began to return, crept slowly up through my body and over my head. Shaking me, sickening me, gnawing at me inside and out like some hateful and invisible reptile.

Grandma snickered sympathetically. “Pretty sick, aren't you?”

“A little,” I said. “Something I took internally seems to have disagreed with me. Or, I should say—in all fairness—I disagreed with it. It was entirely friendly and tractable until I removed it from the bottle.”

“You know what to do about it,” Grandma said. “You know what you've got to do.”

“I don't know whether I can make it,” I said. “Rather, I have a strong suspicion that I can't make it.”

“You've got to,” Grandma said, “so stop wasting good breath. Stop talking and start moving.”

I groaned piteously, making futile motions of arising. The flesh was willing, but also weak. And as for spirit, I had none whatsoever.

“Verily, Grandma,” I moaned. “Verily, verily. I would swap my soul to Satan for one good drink.”

“Cheapskate,” said Grandma. “Now, cut out the gab and get on your way.”

I nodded miserably. Somehow, I managed to get to my feet. “I shall do as you say, Grandma,” I said.

Grandma made no reply. Presumably she had returned to her well-earned sleep.

I turned and tried to tiptoe away from her. I lost my balance and fell flat on my face, and minutes passed before I could pick myself up again. Finally, after several similar fallings and pickings-up, I reached the road to town.

A truck was coming from the opposite direction. It looked like Joe Henderson's, and it was. I swung an arm, limply, thumb upraised, in the gesture as old as hitchhiking. Joe slowed down, and came to a stop. Then, as I reached for the door, he jabbed one finger into the air, and roared away.

I walked on, more strengthened, more firm in my purpose than otherwise. I wondered what loss Joe could suffer that could not be recouped by insurance, and I decided that the tires of his truck would be a very good bet.

Another farm truck drove up behind me—Dutch Eaton's. Dutch stopped and leaned out, asked me solicitously if I was tired of walking.

“Yes,” I said, “but please spare me the suggestion that I run a while. It was not very amusing even when I first heard it, back during my cradle days.”

His fat face reddened with anger. He sputtered, “Why, you crazy, low-down—!”

“Listen,” I said. “Listen, listen, Mr. Eaton. What is it that is gutless, brainless and moves around on wheels? A swine, Mr. Eaton. A pig in overalls.”

He had been easing the door open. Now, he sprang out with a furious roar, and, whirling, I also sprang. I am almost always equal to such emergencies. Weak though I may have been a moment before, the strength and the agility to save myself invariably come to me. And they did now.

So I leaped the ditch, and vaulted easily over the fence. I walked on up into the orchard in the rear of the Devore estate, listening to Dutch curse me, and, finally, drive away.

Temporarily, I was so absorbed in thought that I almost forgot my hangover. In a sense, I had reason to be grateful to Dutch Eaton and Joe Henderson. Yet I must confess that the emotion I felt for them was very far from gratitude.

Joe and Dutch, I thought. They had been on bad terms with one another for years. What would be the result, say, if Joe's tires should be slashed on the same night that Dutch's barn burned down?

“Lord World forgive me,” I murmured, “for their minds are even as those of a Paleolithic foetus, and I know all too damned well what I do.”

I had passed through the orchard by now, and arrived at the barnyard. Moving boldly but quietly, I went through the gate, crossed the barnyard and backyard, and entered the back door of the house.

No, there was no danger. I knew that, having visited the place several times before. Ralph would be away. Luane would be in bed, and her bedroom was on the front. As long as I was quiet, and no one can be more quiet than I, I could prowl the downstairs at will.

I stopped inside the door a moment, listening. Faintly, from upstairs, Luane's voice drifted down to me as she talked over the telephone:

“…course, I hate to say anything either. Far be it from me to say a word about anyone, and you know it, Mabel. But a thing like that—a young girl lifting her skirts for a nigger—and that father of hers, always acting so high and mighty…”

I hesitated, feeling vaguely impelled to do something. Knowing that if anything could ever have been done, it was too late now. Pete Pavlov would soon hear the gossip. As soon as he ascertained its truth, he would act. And there could be no doubt about how he would act—what he would do.

I frowned, shrugged, and pushed the matter out of my mind; mentally disconnecting the vicious whine of Luane's voice. I could not help the inevitable. On the other hand, I hoped, I could help myself to a drink; and my need for one was growing.

I opened the cupboard, a familiar section of it. I studied the several bottles of flavoring extract, my mouth watering. And then miserably, having noted the labels, I turned away. There was no end, apparently, to Ralph's skimping. Since my last visit, he had substituted cheap, nonalcoholic extracts for the fine, invigorating brands he had previously stocked.

I looked through the other cupboards. I hesitated over a large bottle of floor polish: then, insufficiently intrigued by its five per cent alcoholic content, I turned away again. Finally, I lifted a trap door in the floor, and went down into the cellar.

I had no luck there, either. Ralph's cider was freshly made—still sweet; and he had done his canning as expertly as he did everything else. Out of all the endless jars of fruit and vegetables, there was not a one that was beginning to ferment.

I went back up into the kitchen. Sweat pouring off of me, my nerves screaming for the balm of drink. I went through the connecting door to the front hall, and stood at the foot of the stairs.

There would be plenty to drink up there. Rubbing alcohol. Female tonic. Liniment. Perhaps even something that was made to be drunk. And if Luane would only go to sleep, if she would cease her poisonous spewing for only a few minutes…

But, obviously, she would not. Already she had another party on the wire, and when she had finished with that one she would immediately ring up another. And so on throughout the day. She would never stop—unless she was stopped. As well she deserved to be, aside from my crying need. But I could not envision myself now in the role of stopper, and being unable to I could not act as such.

Another day, perhaps. Some other day, or night, when thirst and hopelessness brought me here again.

I left the house. I retraced my steps through the orchard, and walked toward town, turning eventually into the alley that ran behind Doctor Ashton's house.

Doctor Ashton would not be at home at this hour, nor would he assist me if he was. As for his son, Bobbie, who doubtless was also away, I had accepted his help but once, and that once was more than enough. I still shuddered when I recalled the experience. What he gave me, that angel-faced phlegmatic fiend, I do not know. But it practically removed my bowels, and nausea shook me like a terrier-shaken rat for the ensuing three days.

I could look for nothing, then, from Ashton or his son. But the Negro woman, Hattie, would be at home; she never went anywhere. And doubtless out of superstition—a kind of awe of the so-called insane—she had given me drink several times in the past.

I knocked on the back door. There was a
sluff-sluff
of house slippers, and then she was standing at the screen, looking out at me dully.

“Go 'way,” she said, before I could speak. “Go 'way and stay 'way. Don't want no more truck with you.”

I read the tone of her voice, the reason behind her attitude. At least, I believe I did. I told her she was completely mistaken if she believed I was bad luck.

“Listen, listen, Miss Hattie,” I said. “You see this caul in my left eye? Now, I'm sure you know that a man with a caul in his eye—”

“I knows you an' 'at eye bettah be moving,” she said. “You an' it want to go on keepin' company. Get now, you heah me? Get along, crazy man!”

“Please,” I said. “Please do not refer to me as crazy. I have a document in my pocket, signed by the state's chief psychiatrist, certifying to my sanity. Now, surely, and even though our mental hospitals are crowded to twice their capacity, he wouldn't have declared me sane if—”

“Okay,” she cut in flatly. “Okay. You stays right there, an' I gives you a drink, awright.”

She turned away from the screen. I could not see what she was doing, but I heard water gushing into what apparently was a large flat pan.

Hastily, I got off the steps and moved back into the yard. “Listen, listen,” I said. “You don't need to do that. I'm leaving right now.”

She came to the door again, eyes sparkling in malicious triumph. She said that I had
better
leave, and stay left.

“But you had better not,” I said. “Listen, listen, Miss Hattie. Leave the house at no time. Particularly do not leave it at night. Great evil will befall you if you do.”

A trace of fear tightened the contours of her off-ivory face. “Huh! What make you think I goin' anywhere?”

“Listen, listen,” I said. “Because it is so written that you may, and that great and dreadful evil will result. So it is written. But listen, listen. If I had a drink—a very large one—I could doubtless change the writing.”

I had been too eager. She let out a grunt of relief and unbelief, and returned to the kitchen.

I continued on my dreary, drinkless way.

Frequently, or I should say occasionally, I have had some success at the courthouse. There are always a number of loafers around; also, needless to say—and if you will excuse the redundancy—the county office-holders. So I went there today, hoping to amuse them as I sometimes had in the past. To titillate and entertain them with my wisdom, and thus obtain a few coins. Alas, however! Alas, and verily, and lo. Seldom have I been appreciated less than on this day, the day when my need was greatest.

I was chased out of office after office. I was brushed aside, cursed out, elbowed and shoved along by one loafer after another.

…I had been unwilling to call on Pete Pavlov, except as a last resort, for a couple of reasons. For one thing, it was quite a long walk across town to the beach area; an almost intolerable walk for one in my condition. For another, I had called upon him so often in the past that further appeals would not only be embarrassing, but were apt to prove fruitless.