5
Mark Petrie was working on a model of Frankenstein's monster in his room and listening to his parents down in the living room. His room was on the second floor of the farmhouse they had bought on South Jointner Avenue, and although the house was heated by a modern oil furnace now, the old second-floor grates were still there. Orig?inally, when the house had been heated by a central kitchen stove, the warm-air grates had kept the second floor from becoming too cold - although the woman who had orig?inally lived in this house with her dour Baptist husband from 1873 to 1896 had still taken a hot brick wrapped in flannel to bed with her - but now the grates served another purpose. They conducted sound excellently.
Although his parents were down in the living room, they might as well have been discussing him right outside the door.
Once, when his father had caught him listening at the door in their old house - Mark had only been six then ?his father had told him an old English proverb: Never listen at a knothole lest you be vexed. That meant, his father said, that you may hear something about yourself that you don't like.
Well, there was another one, too. Forewarned is fore?armed.
At age twelve, Mark Petrie was a little smaller than the average and slightly delicate-looking. Yet he moved with a grace and litheness that is not the common lot of boys his age, who seem mostly made up of knees and elbows and scabs. His complexion was fair, almost milky, and his features, which would be considered aquiline later in life, now seemed a trifle feminine. It had caused him some trouble even before the Richie Boddin incident in the schoolyard, and he had determined to handle it himself. He had made an analysis of the problem. Most bullies, he had decided, were big and ugly and clumsy. They scared people by being able to hurt them. They fought dirty. Therefore, if you were not afraid of being hurt a little, and if you were willing to fight dirty, a bully might be bested. Richie Boddin had been the first full vindication of his theory. He and the bully at the Kittery Elementary School had come off even (which had been a victory of a kind; the Kittery bully, bloody but unbowed, had proclaimed to the schoolyard community at large that he and Mark Petrie were pals. Mark, who thought the Kittery bully was a dumb piece of shit, did not contradict him. He understood discretion.). Talk did no good with bullies. Hurting was the only language that the Richie Boddins of the world seemed to understand, and Mark supposed that was why the world always had such a hard time getting along. He had been sent from school that day, and his father had been very angry until Mark, resigned to his ritual whipping with a rolled - up magazine, told him that Hitler had just been a Richie Boddin at heart. That had made his father laugh like hell, and even his mother snickered. The whip?ping had been averted.
Now June Petrie was saying: 'Do you think it's affected him, Henry?'
'Hard . . . to tell.' And Mark knew by the pause that his father was lighting his pipe. 'He's got a hell of a poker face.'
'Still waters run deep, though.' She paused. His mother was always saying things like still waters run deep or it's a long, long road that has no turning. He loved them both dearly, but sometimes they seemed just as ponderous as the books in the folio section of the library . . . and just as dusty.
'They were on their way to see Mark,' she resumed. 'To play with his train set . . . now one dead and one missing! Don't fool yourself, Henry. The boy feels something.'
'He's got his feet pretty solidly planted on the ground,' Mr Petrie said. 'Whatever his feelings are, I'm sure he's got them in hand.'
Mark glued the Frankenstein m6nster's left arm into the shoulder socket. It was a specially treated Aurora model that glowed green in the dark, just like the plastic Jesus he had gotten for memorizing all of the 119th Psalm in Sunday school class in Kittery.
'I've sometimes thought we should have had another,' his father was saying. 'Among other things, it would have been good for Mark.'
And his mother, in an arch tone: 'Not for lack of trying, dear.'
His father grunted.
There was a long pause in the conversation. His father, he knew, would be rattling through The Wall Street Journal. His mother would be holding a novel by Jane Austen on her lap, or perhaps Henry James. She read them over and over again, and Mark was darned if he could see the sense in reading a book more than once. You knew how it was going to end.
'D'you think it's safe to let him go in the woods behind the house?' his mother asked presently. 'They say there's quicksand somewhere in town - '
'Miles from here.'
Mark relaxed a little and glued the monster's other arm on. He had a whole table of Aurora horror monsters, arranged in a scene that he changed each time a new element was added. It was a pretty good set. Danny and Ralphie had really been coming to see that the night when . . . whatever.
'I think it's okay,' his father said. 'Not after dark, of course.'
'Well, I hope that awful funeral won't give him nightmares.'
Mark could almost see his father shrug. 'Tony Glick . . . unfortunate. But death and grief are part of living. Time he got used to the idea.'
'Maybe.' Another long pause. What was coming now? he wondered. The child is the father of the man, maybe. Or as the twig is bent the tree is shaped. Mark glued the monster onto his base, which was a grave mound with a leaning headstone in the background. 'In the midst of life we're in death. But I may have nightmares.'
'Oh?'
'That Mr Foreman must be quite an artist, grisly as it sounds. He really looked as if he was just asleep. That any second he might open his eyes and yawn and . . . I don't know why these people insist on torturing themselves with open-coffin services. It's . . . heathenish.'
'Well, it's over.'
'Yes, I suppose. He's a good boy, isn't he, Henry?'
'Mark? The best.'
Mark smiled.
'Is there anything on TV?'
'I'll look.'
Mark turned the rest off; the serious discussion was done. He set his model on the window sill to dry and harden. In another fifteen minutes his mother would be calling up for him to get ready for bed. He took his pajamas out of the top dresser drawer and began to undress.
In point of fact, his mother was worrying needlessly about his psyche, which was not tender at all. There was no particular reason why it should have been; he was a typical boy in most ways, despite his economy and his gracefulness. His family was upper middle class and still upwardly mobile, and the marriage of his parents was sound. They loved each other firmly, if a little stodgily. There had never been any great trauma in Mark's life. The few school fights had not scarred him. He got along with his peers and in general wanted the same things they wanted.
If there was anything that set him apart, it was a reservoir of remoteness, of cool self-control. No one had inculcated it in him; he seemed to have been born with it. When his pet dog, Chopper, had been hit by a car, he had insisted on going with his mother to the vet's. And when the vet had said, The dog has got to be put to sleep, my boy. Do you understand why? Mark said, You're not going to put him to sleep. You're going to gas him to death, aren't you? The vet said yes. Mark told him to go ahead, but he had kissed Chopper first. He had felt sorry but he hadn't cried and tears had never been close to the surface. His mother had cried but three days later Chopper was in the dim past to her, and he would never be in the dim past for Mark. That was the value in not crying. Crying was like pissing everything out on the ground.
He had been shocked by the disappearance of Ralphie Glick, and shocked again by Danny's death, but he had not been frightened. He had heard one of the men in the store say that probably a sex pervert had gotten Ralphie. Mark knew what perverts were. They did something to you that got their rocks off and when they were done they strangled you (in the comic books, the guy getting strangled always said Arrrgggh) and buried you in a gravel pit or under the boards of a deserted shed. If a sex pervert ever offered him candy, he would kick him in the balls and then run like a split streak.
'Mark?' His mother's voice, drifting up the stairs. 'I am,' he said, and smiled again.
'Don't forget your ears when you wash.'
'I won't.'
He went downstairs to kiss them good night, moving lithely and gracefully, sparing one glance backward to the table where his monsters rested in tableau: Dracula with his mouth open, showing his fangs, was menacing a girl lying on the ground while the Mad Doctor was torturing a lady on the rack and Mr Hyde was creeping up on an old guy walking home.
Understand death? Sure. That was when the monsters got you.
6
Roy McDougall pulled into the driveway of his trailer at half past eight, gunned the engine of his old Ford twice, and turned the engine off. The header pipe was just about shot, the blinkers didn't work, and the sticker came up next month. Some car. Some life. The kid was howling in the house and Sandy was screaming at him. Great old marriage.
He got out of the car and fell over one of the flagstones he had been meaning to turn into a walk from the driveway to the steps since last summer.
'Shitfire,' he muttered, glowering balefully at the piece of flagging and rubbing his shin.
He was quite drunk. He had gotten off work at three and had been drinking down at Dell's ever since with Hank Peters and Buddy Mayberry. Hank had been flush just lately, and seemed intent on drinking up the whole of his dividend, whatever it had been. He knew what Sandy thought of his buddies. Well, let her get tightassed. Be?grudge a man a few beers on Saturday and Sunday even though he spent the whole week breaking his back on the goddamn picker - and getting weekend overtime to boot. Who was she to get so holy? She spent all day sitting in the house with nothing to do but take care of the place and shoot the shit with the mailman and see that the kid didn't crawl into the oven. She hadn't been watching him too close lately, anyway. Goddamn kid even fell off the changing table the other day.
Where were you?
I was holding him, Roy. He just wriggles so.
Wriggles. Yeah.
He went up to the door, still steaming. His leg hurt where he had bumped it. Not that he'd get any sympathy from her. So what was she doing while he was sweating his guts out for that prick of a foreman? Reading confession magazines and eating chocolate-covered cherries or watch?ing the soap operas on the TV and eating chocolate?-covered cherries or gabbing to her friends on the phone and eating chocolate-covered cherries. She was getting pimples on her ass as well as her face. Pretty soon you wouldn't be able to tell the two of them apart.
He pushed open the door and walked in.
The scene struck him immediately and forcibly, cutting through the beer haze like the flick of a wet towel: the baby, naked and screaming, blood running from his nose; Sandy holding him, her sleeveless blouse smeared with blood, looking at him over her shoulder, her face contracting with surprise and fear; the diaper on the floor.
Randy, with the discolored marks around his eyes barely fading, raised his hands as if in supplication.
'What's going on around here?' Roy asked slowly.
'Nothing, Roy. He just - '
'You hit him,' he said tonelessly. 'He wouldn't hold still for the diapers so you smacked him.'
'No,' she said quickly. 'He rolled over and bumped his nose, that's all. That's all.'
'I ought to beat the shit out of you,' he said.
'Roy, he just bumped his nose - '
His shoulders slumped. 'What's for dinner?'
'Hamburgs. They're burnt,' she said petulantly, and pulled the bottom of her blouse out of her Wranglers to wipe under Randy's nose. Roy could see the roll of fat she was getting. She'd never bounced back after the baby. Didn't care.
'Shut him up.'
'He isn't - '
'Shut him up!' Roy yelled, and Randy, who had actually been quieting down to snuffles, began to scream again.
'I'll give him a bottle,' Sandy said, getting up.
'And get my dinner.' He started to take off his denim jacket. 'Christ, isn't this place a mess. What do you do all day, beat off?'
'Roy!' she said, sounding shocked. Then she giggled. Her insane burst of anger at the baby who would not hold still on his diapers so she could pin them began to be far away, hazy. It might have happened on one of her afternoon stories, or 'Medical Center'.
'Get my dinner and then pick this frigging place up.'
'All right. All right, sure.' She got a bottle out of the refrigerator and put Randy down in the playpen with it. He began to suck it apathetically, his eyes moving from mother to father in small, trapped circles.
'Roy?'
'Hmmm? What?'
'It's all over.'
'What is?'
'You know what. Do you want to? Tonight?'
'Sure,' he said. 'Sure.' And thought again: isn't this some life. Isn't this just some life.
7
Nolly Gardener was listening to rock n' roll music on WLOB and snapping his fingers when the telephone rang. Parkins put down his crossword magazine and said, 'Cut that some, will you?'
'Sure, Park.' Nolly turned the radio down and went on snapping his fingers.
'Hello?' Parkins said.
'Constable Gillespie?'
'Yeah.'
'Agent Tom Hanrahan here, Sir. I've got the information you requested.'
'Good of you to get back so quick.'
'We haven't got much of a hook for you.'
'That's okay,' Parkins said. 'What have you got?' 'Ben Mears investigated as a result of a traffic fatality in upstate New York, May 1973. No charges brought. Motorcycle smash. His wife Miranda was killed. Witnesses said he was moving slowly and a breath test was negative. Apparently just hit a wet spot. His politics are leftish. He was in a peace march at Princeton in 1966. Spoke at an antiwar rally in Brooklyn in 1967. March on Washington in 1968 and 1970. Arrested during a San Francisco peace march November 1971. And that's all there is on him.' 'What else?'
'Kurt Barlow, that's Kurt with a "k". He's British, but by naturalization rather than birth. Born in Germany, fled to England in 1938, apparently just ahead of the Gestapo. His earlier records just aren't available, but he's probably in his seventies. The name he was born with was Breichen. He's been in the import-export business in London since 1945, but he's elusive. Straker has been his partner since then, and Straker seems to be the fellow who deals with the public.'
'Yeah?'
'Straker is British by birth. Fifty-eight years old. His father was a cabinetmaker in Manchester. Left a fair amount of money to his son, apparently, and this Straker has done all right, too. Both of them applied for visas to spend an extended amount of time in the United States eighteen months ago. That's all we have. Except that they may be queer for each other.'
'Yeah,' Parkins said, and sighed. 'About what I thought.'
'If you'd like further assistance, we can query CID and Scottand Yard about your two new merchants.'
'No, that's fine.'
'No connection between Mears and the other two, by the way. Unless it's deep undercover.'
'Okay. Thanks.'
'It's what we're here for. If you want assistance, get in touch.'
'I will. Thank you now.'
He put the receiver back in its cradle and looked at it thoughtfully.
'Who was that, Park?' Nolly asked, turning up the radio.
'The Excellent Café. They ain't got any ham on rye. Nothin' but toasted cheese and egg salad.'
'I got some raspberry fluff in my desk if you want it.'
'No thanks,' Parkins said, and sighed again.